This Man Came Straight From Hell

The Arctic. Minsk.

The wind here always carries the smell of rust and cold gunpowder.

At the top of the city wall, three figures stood like iron towers — the three Five-Star Generals whose names alone were enough to make foreign nations tremble. But right now, their eyes were fixed on the figure ahead of them, a man wrapped in a tattered cloak, their gazes filled with shock and reluctance.

"Boss, you're really leaving?" The most hot-headed of the three, the Gold Five-Star General, stepped forward, his voice rough.

Sean Valentino turned around slowly.

A wound on his face had not yet healed.

The day before, he had fought a hundred men alone, cutting down eight hundred of the empire's finest warriors in the middle of a raging battlefield.

That battle had turned the sky dark. When it was over, nothing within a hundred miles of the Arctic was left alive.

"After yesterday, all eight hundred enemies are dead." Sean's voice was calm, without a trace of emotion. "The Arctic is now an unconquerable city. In the short term, no one will dare set foot on American soil again — not even if you gave them a hundred times the courage."

"But—"

"No buts." Sean waved his hand, his breathing slightly unsteady. He took a deep breath, and his tone grew heavier. "In that battle, I killed those old monsters, but I took serious damage too. This body needs rest."

He looked out at the dark clouds rolling in the distance, a sharp cold light flickering in his eyes. "Enemy nations surround us. Their desire to destroy America has never died. This blade of mine needs to be sheathed for a while. When I return healed, it will be time for a full reckoning."

The three generals exchanged glances and said nothing. They knew that once Sean made up his mind, nothing in this world could change it.

"There's something else besides recovering, isn't there?" The Black Dragon Five-Star General, who had been silent the whole time, asked quietly.

Sean didn't answer.

It was the softest place in his heart — and the one thing that had never left his mind in fifteen years.

"I was five years old." Sean's gaze drifted somewhere far away. "I was taken by traffickers to this harsh land. If the old Arctic soldiers hadn't risked their lives to save me, I'd be nothing but bones by now. Before that, I grew up in a welfare home. There were a few girls there — no blood relation at all — but they treated me like their own little brother."

As he spoke, he carefully pulled an old, yellowed photograph from inside his coat.

In it, a group of children were packed together, all smiling wide. A few little girls surrounded a small, thin boy. It was the most precious thing Sean had ever owned.

"I once swore I'd protect them for the rest of my life. The Arctic is at peace now. It's time to keep that promise."

Sean tucked the photo back against his chest, feeling the faint warmth of the paper through his shirt.

"Sisters, are you doing okay? Your little brother... is coming home."

The words had barely left his mouth before Sean spun around and faced the edge of the hundred-meter-high city wall.

"Boss!"

"My mind is made up. Arctic — Minsk — I'm leaving it in your hands."

Sean leapt.

A hundred meters in the air, he moved like it was solid ground. His body cut through the sky like an eagle diving from a cliff, and in an instant he was swallowed by the thick fog below.

"Farewell, Marshal!"

On the wall, the three Five-Star Generals dropped to one knee in unison, their roar tearing through the sky.

Then, as if answering a silent call, a hundred thousand armored soldiers inside the city raised their heads and bellowed together. The sound crashed like thunder, shattering the heavy storm clouds that had been circling overhead.

"Farewell, Marshal—!"

——

New York.

The moment his feet touched the ground again, Sean felt like he was stepping into a different lifetime.

Compared to the bitter cold and constant bloodshed of the Arctic, the air here carried something warm and alive — the smell of a city full of people just living their lives.

"Ten years." Sean walked down the street, taking in the rows of shop signs on either side, a quiet feeling rising in his chest. "My sisters must be real beauties by now."

The thought brought a small, easy smile to his face.

But he let it fade quickly. Fifteen years with no contact — finding them in a city this size wouldn't be easy. The only lead he had was the place they'd all shared.

"Driver, take me to Angel Welfare Home in the west of the city."

Sean flagged down a cab.

The welfare home sat halfway up a small hill on the west side. When the car pulled up along the winding road and stopped at the entrance, Sean went still.

The crumbling old brick building he remembered, the one that let in the wind from every crack, was gone. In its place stood two neat three-story buildings with warm beige walls and a rubberized running track in the yard.

"Things have clearly improved around here." Sean paid the driver and stepped out, feeling some of the tension leave his chest. As long as the place was still standing, he could find out where his sisters had gone.

But the moment he reached the black iron gate, a chill shot up from the soles of his feet straight to the top of his head.

It was noon.

Summer in New York showed no mercy. The temperature had to be well over 37 degrees Celsius, and standing in direct sunlight with no shade, it felt closer to 40.

And yet, right there on the concrete outside the welfare home, two rows of children were standing in perfect lines.

Tall ones, short ones, skinny ones, heavier ones. The oldest looked no more than ten. The youngest couldn't have been older than four or five, their faces still soft with baby fat.

None of them had shoes on. They were standing barefoot on the scorching concrete.

The sun had burned their skin dark. Some of them were swaying, their lips cracked and bleeding, but every one of them was clenching their jaw, too afraid to move even an inch.

Sweat ran down the sides of their faces and hit the ground, evaporating before it could spread.

Sean's pupils shrank. A white-hot rage ignited in his blood.

He had crawled out of hell to become a marshal. He knew what training looked like. He also knew what abuse looked like.

Even in the most brutal special forces selection in the Arctic, they would never make children this young stand in the midday sun.

This wasn't punishment. This was something else entirely.

A sharp crack cut through the air — the snap of a whip.

"Don't move! Anyone who falls doesn't eat today!" A shrill, cutting voice came from somewhere in the shade of a parasol.

Sean looked up.

A woman was sitting in a rattan chair, leisurely sipping an iced cola.

In that moment, the air around Sean seemed to freeze. The hot summer wind turned bone-cold, carrying something in it that made the skin crawl.

He walked toward the iron gate, one step at a time. Each footfall seemed to make the ground shudder faintly beneath him.

"So this," Sean said, his voice low but heavy as stone, "is what you call... Angel Welfare Home?"

The woman inside, who had been raising her whip again, went rigid. She spun around, her face white with sudden fear.

The noon sun bore down like a branding iron on the open ground of the welfare home.

The air shimmered and warped in the heat. The smell of scorched rubber mixed with the sweat of the children and hit Sean straight in the face.