Chapter 3
Dawn at the Afghan frontline Forward Operating Base (FOB) always reeked of a bitter, burnt mix of diesel generators and dirt-cheap instant coffee.
I stood in the chow line at the mess hall, holding my stainless steel tray.
Miraculously, the spot on my neck scalded by the hot water last night hadn't worsened; instead, it had scabbed over and begun to heal. Still, I deliberately popped the collar of my combat uniform, wanting to avoid unnecessary trouble.
"Arthur, your MRE."
Medic David's voice came from the side.
He thrust an opened MRE (Meal, Ready-to-Eat) beef stew pouch in front of me. His eyes darted nervously, beads of sweat clearly visible on his forehead in the morning light.
I glanced down at the ration.
It was obviously spiked with a massive amount of crushed garlic and garlic juice, reeking of a pungent odor.
And in a US military mess hall that exclusively used standard-issue plastic cutlery, a solid silver spoon—God knows where he got it—was conspicuously jammed into the mush.
David stared at me dead in the eye, his bloodshot gaze revealing a highly conflicted mix of fanaticism and tension.
He was waiting. Waiting for me to catch the scent of garlic and run for the hills, or to have a so-called "allergic reaction" the moment I touched pure silver.
I sneered inwardly.
These lunatics had blatantly brought their bullying tactics right into the mess hall.
I stared at David’s face, which eagerly anticipated the "monster's revelation." I didn't say a word. I simply reached out and grabbed the pure silver spoon.
The moment of contact, a searing pain traced up my fingertips.
Motherfucker! This silver spoon was heated!
But I absolutely could not show the slightest anomaly. I couldn't give them any excuse to destroy me.
In a split second, keeping my wrist as steady as a rock and enduring the burning pain without a single tremor, I scooped up a large bite of the garlic-soaked beef mush. Meeting David's dead stare, I shoved it into my mouth.
The moment it hit my tongue.
Underneath the pungent garlic, an extremely violent, fiery, agonizing burning sensation tore through my mouth and esophagus!
It felt as if someone had poured a whole tube of high-concentration Carolina Reaper extract straight down my throat, making my internal organs twitch.
These bastards!
I frowned slightly, thinking to myself: They definitely laced this with weapon-grade capsaicin used in military pepper spray!
But as a special ops veteran who had survived SERE (Survival, Evasion, Resistance, and Escape) anti-interrogation training, this level of physical pain was entirely within my threshold.
Giving my molars a slight grind, I forcefully shut down the violent churning in my stomach. Chewing expressionlessly, I swallowed it down, brute-forcing through the fiery agony.
Not only that, I even scraped the bottom of the tray with the silver spoon. Then, I slowly looked up, locking eyes with David using a dead, utterly emotionless stare.
"Tastes pretty good," my voice carried a rough rasp from forcefully suppressing the spice. "But whatever pepper extract you guys added has a hell of a kick. You want some?"
David’s eyes practically bugged out of his head.
His entire cognitive reality collapsed in that moment. He watched me hold a pure silver spoon and eat garlic—which to a vampire is as lethal as drinking Paraquat—and I merely complained that it was "a bit spicy"?!
His meticulously prepared "fatal test" was crushed into dust by the most logic-defying reaction possible.
"What? Did the logistics company send you over for a taste-test survey?" I took a half-step forward, my shadow instantly engulfing him.
David's psychological defenses completely shattered.
"N-No! You eat... take your time!"
His face ashen as a corpse, he retreated frantically as if electrocuted. His left foot tripped over his right, sending him crashing awkwardly into the neighboring table.
He didn't even bother to pick up his dropped canteen. Like he had seen a demon, he turned, shoved his way through the crowd, and fled in terror.
Watching his stumbling silhouette, I picked up my canteen and chugged a massive gulp of ice water, suppressing the bizarre burning sensation in my stomach.
Ignoring the bewildered stares of the soldiers around me, I tossed my tray into the recycling bin and strode out of the mess hall.
I couldn't wait for them to conduct their so-called "third test."
Their mental state was rapidly deteriorating. Before they completely lost their minds and shot me, I had to secure the trump card that would put them away for life.
At 10:00 AM, taking advantage of a gap during guard shifts, I headed to the base communications and logistics company.
Anyone who has been in the US military system long enough knows that the underground gray market here is more efficient than the black market.
For two cartons of Lucky Strikes and a few bills with Franklin's face on them, I received a small metal box disguised as a first-aid kit from an informant.
Inside was a set of tactical micro-HD surveillance and audio equipment originally designed for behind-enemy-lines reconnaissance.
Pinhole lenses, built-in IR night vision, and an independent encrypted LAN transmitter.
Returning to the cramped, suffocatingly hot tin barracks, I closed the door and scanned the room.
My special ops anti-reconnaissance muscle memory instantly locked onto three perfect blind spots: the gaps in the ceiling AC vent, the top of the tactical locker directly facing Jack's bunk, and the false bottom of the toolbox under David’s bed.
Within ten minutes, three micro-cameras were silently secured in the shadows like invisible eyes, emitting zero suspicious light.
A massive, one-way intelligence dragnet was fully deployed in this rust-smelling room.
In my past life, they had ruthlessly plotted against me in the dark; this time, under my lenses, they would have absolutely nowhere to hide.
Late night. 2:15 AM.
Using the excuse of getting some fresh air, dressed in my moisture-wicking combat shirt, I hid in the shadow of an abandoned Humvee a few hundred meters from the barracks, tightly gripping a PDA in a reverse hold.
On the screen, the infrared night-vision feed of the barracks interior glowed an eerie, ghostly green.
In the frame, Corporal Jack was not asleep.
He crawled out of bed and moved like a ghost to his personal locker. He checked left and right to confirm David and Smith were deeply asleep. Then he crouched down and slowly pulled something wrapped in moisture-proof tarp from a false bottom panel.
The moment I saw what it was, the phantom memory of where I had been pierced in the chest violently twitched.
It was a sharp wooden stake shaped like a cross.
Jack sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glowing in the infrared lens with a dark, beast-like glimmer.
He pulled a small scribe pen from his kit and began carving into the wood.
The agonizing sound of metal scraping wood came through the high-frequency mic clearly into my earpiece.
Though the feed was slightly grainy, I didn't need to see to know what he was carving—those superstitious runes.
"Garlic is useless... He's not even afraid of silver..." Jack shuddered, whispering into the empty air, his tone dripping with a desperate, sickly resolve. "He's too high-level. We can't test him with conventional methods anymore. Tomorrow night... it has to be tomorrow night. We must slit his throat and drive the cross straight into his heart!"
I stared coldly at the screen, my calloused thumb lightly pressing the "Record/Save" button on the side of the PDA.
In the top right corner of the screen, the red REC indicator pulsed steadily in the dark.
Perfect.
The audio motive for murder and the video of modifying a lethal weapon were fully secured.
Tomorrow night? I'll be waiting for you.
