Chapter 1

The last time I saw my father was the moment he pushed me into the hidden chamber. I was fifteen back then.

The chamber was tucked behind the bookshelf in his study, no bigger than a suitcase. As he shoved me inside, his fingers pressed hard and briefly against my shoulder. He did not say "I love you", nor did he tell me not to be afraid. He simply looked straight into my eyes and spoke a single sentence.

"Remember, and stay alive."

The bookshelf slid shut. Thirty seconds later, gunshots rang out from downstairs.

Through the gaps of the ventilation vent, I saw them. Five men, five faces. The leader stood in the middle of the living room, holding a glass of whiskey taken from my father's liquor cabinet. He took a sip, then spoke to my father, who lay on the floor with three bullet wounds in his legs. "General, I respect your integrity. But on this land, integrity is worthless." A smile played on his lips as he spoke.

The armed chief beside him stepped forward and pressed the muzzle of his gun against my father's forehead. Father kept his eyes open, staring at the barrel. Then the crack of gunfire echoed through the entire house.

My mother was dragged out of the bedroom without a single scream. She was the wife of a soldier. She merely glanced at the gun, then closed her eyes. Another gunshot rang out, and she fell beside my father. The ice cubes in the whiskey glass were still clinking and swirling.

What followed was like a nightmare submerged in water — blurred and slow, yet every detail was burned into my sight. I bit down hard on the back of my hand until I tasted blood and felt my teeth graze bone, using the sharp pain to force myself to stay awake. I had no idea when they left. All I remember was the sky fading from pitch black to pale grey. Then I pushed the bookshelf aside and walked into the living room.

My parents lay on the floor, three paces apart. I knelt between them, pressing one hand to each of their chests. Their body heat was slipping away, like sand trickling through an hourglass, and I could not hold onto it.

Someone pulled me to my feet. Sirens wailed down the entire street, and flashing floodlights burst into blinding white before my eyes. A blanket was draped over my shoulders, and voices murmured beside my ears, but I could not take in a word. I only glanced back at the front door of the house — the door my father would never walk through again.

Three months later, I stood in the office of Wilkinson, the Assistant Director of the CTDA. He had been my father's deputy back in the military, a man I had called Uncle for fifteen years.

I handed over part of the evidence my father had left behind: a record of communications from the night of the attack, surveillance logs showing unusual traffic control on surrounding roads, and an anonymous intelligence report. My father's former aide had secretly given these to me three days after the massacre, before he was transferred to an overseas post. All three pieces of evidence pointed to one truth: the slaughter of my family was a premeditated murder.

Wilkinson's eyes turned red as he took the documents. He walked around his desk, grabbed me by the shoulders, his voice hoarse. "Lane, rest assured. Your father was my best friend. I will get to the bottom of this, no matter what." My throat tightened, and I could not utter a word.

Three more months passed. At a CTDA press conference, Wilkinson announced that the massacre of General Cross's family was a random retaliation by gangsters, and there was no evidence to prove it was premeditated. A week after the conference, he was officially appointed Deputy Director of the CTDA. I watched the live broadcast on TV and crushed the remote control in my grip.

That night, I recalled the feel of his hands on my shoulders. His fingers had been icy cold. It was not grief — it was nervousness. He had not been comforting me; he had been testing how much more evidence I still held.

I dug up an old file. Three months before my father's death, Wilkinson's personal account received an anonymous remittance of five million federal credits. The date of the transfer coincided exactly with the day the my family's security system was upgraded. He took the money and sold out our security arrangements. Five million federal credits, bought the lives of three people.

I did not go to confront him. A fifteen-year-old orphan standing before a deputy director and calling him a traitor would only disappear without a trace, and quickly. The system would never deliver justice for a dead general. The murderer's ally sat in an office wearing an official uniform, while I was not even a pawn in their game. I refused to remain one any longer.

I signed up under a false identity and queued for six hours outside a recruitment station in North Africa. I joined the North African Joint Special Forces for a five-year term. From a raw recruit to a member of the elite assault squad, I learned to take down three men with a single blade in the desert, to keep my aim steady for forty-eight hours without sleep, and to pick a target out of a crowd and vanish without a trace. When my instructor asked why I pushed myself harder than everyone else, I said I simply had no consequences to fear.

Then came another five years with the CTDA. I took part in twenty-three cross-border anti-drug operations and neutralized forty-seven drug traffickers. They gave me a nickname — "God of War". At the commendation ceremony, Wilkinson personally presented me with the medal. He shook my hand and smiled for the cameras. "Cross is the pride of all of us." I looked him in the eye and smiled back. "Thank you, Deputy Director."

For ten years, I dedicated myself to one thing: preparation.

I built an encrypted database containing complete files on every core member of the Iron Throne cartel. Its leader Serrano, armed chief Carlos, finance director Gustavo, intelligence chief Victor, and political protector Ramon — I documented their routines, weaknesses, residential addresses of their families, and phone numbers of their mistresses. I never forgot the five faces I saw on the night my family was killed.

Now, the time had come.

During a high-level CTDA meeting, I voluntarily proposed a deep infiltration mission: I would pose as a rogue agent and go undercover inside Iron Throne. The approval process took two months. I passed polygraph tests, psychological evaluations and three background investigations. No one suspected why an orphan would walk straight into the very organization responsible for wiping out my family. They believed I was acting for the agency's sense of justice. I cared nothing for their assumptions. I only wanted one thing: for the man who had stood there smiling with a glass of whiskey ten years ago to look me in the face and remember every life he had taken.

On the day I departed, I took three items with me: a tactical dagger, a complete map of smuggling routes belonging to the Southern Coast Alliance, and a rolled-up family portrait. The defection profile compiled by the intelligence department listed three motives: salary disputes, blocked promotions, and disillusionment with the system. I had laid the groundwork for all of them over the past three years. I left records of dissatisfaction in the internal system, clashed with superiors during two missions, and let psychological reports label me "emotionally unstable". A perfect traitor needs a perfect path of descent — and I spent three years crafting mine.

When the helicopter landed on the helipad of Iron Throne's manor, I scanned the surroundings. Seventeen surveillance cameras, four sniper positions, and two patrol teams of armed men. A bald man stood at the edge of the helipad waiting for me, a scar stretching from his left eye corner all the way down to his chin. It was Carlos, the cartel's armed chief — the man who had pressed his gun to my father's forehead that night.

He grinned when he saw me. "So you're the famous God of War?"

I said nothing. He took two steps forward and suddenly threw a punch straight at my ribs. Agony exploded across my side, yet I stood my ground without flinching. Carlos froze for a second, then his grin widened. "You've got guts."

He led me through the manor toward the study. When the door swung open, I finally laid eyes on him: Serrano, the king of Iron Throne. He sat in a dark brown leather armchair, with the full glow of the setting sun visible through the floor-to-ceiling windows behind him. In his hand was a glass of whiskey, ice cubes clinking gently against the glass. The scene was exactly the same as it had been ten years ago. My pupils contracted, but no one could tell. Over the decade, I had mastered the art of wearing an impassive expression.

"Lane Cross." He pronounced my name slowly, as if tasting fine wine. "The face of the CTDA, their celebrated God of War. The Southern Coast Alliance has put a price of eight million federal credits on your head."

"Then why haven't you made your move?"

"Because I'm curious." He leaned forward slightly. "A hero with a bright future — why would you turn to traffickers?"

I met his gaze. "I'm tired of being the good guy."

He did not reply right away. He held his glass and studied me for a long time, then pulled a document out of his desk drawer. "This map of the Southern Coast Alliance's smuggling routes is worth far more than eight million. What makes me believe you're not an undercover agent?"

"Seventeen active routes are marked inside." I pulled another document from the inside of my coat. "This is their encrypted communication protocol. You can verify it right now."

Serrano took the papers and flipped through them, his movements growing slower as he read. He glanced up at Carlos, who nodded and stepped out of the room.

Silence settled over the study once more. Serrano leaned back in his chair, his gaze drifting to my left arm. My sleeve covered the scar there, yet his stare told me he knew it existed.

"I've read your file. Your whole family was killed ten years ago, and the case was never solved. Don't you want revenge?"

"I do," I answered. "But first, I need to stay alive."

Serrano watched me for a long while, then laughed, a laugh of genuine admiration. He raised his glass in a toast to me. "Do you know what I like most about you? You're cold-blooded. Only someone who can abandon the light can truly understand the value of the dark."

He stood up, walked around the desk, and placed his hand on my shoulder. His fingers felt cold to the touch.

"Welcome to Iron Throne, son."

I lowered my head, hiding my eyes from him. "Thank you, Boss."

That night, after closing the door to my room, I took off my watch and set it on the table. I pulled the family portrait from a hidden pocket inside my shirt, brushed the dust off it with my fingers, and tucked it under my pillow. I closed my eyes, and my father's voice echoed in my ears: Remember, and stay alive. I had remembered for ten years. Now it was their turn to pay.

Early the next morning, there was a knock at the door. Carlos leaned against the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest. "New recruits have to pass a test. The Boss says you're officially in once you make it through."

He handed me a slip of paper with an address, a time and a name written on it. "Kill this man."

I took the note and walked past him. "Give me his files."