The call came at exactly 7:13 a.m. Charlie glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Nancy. He picked up. “Get to Central Hospital. Mom’s condition has worsened. They need blood. Again.” Her voice was flat—no gratitude, no concern. Just an order. “Alright,” he replied quietly, already grabbing his coat. His face was still pale from the last donation, but that didn’t seem to matter to Nancy—or anyone else in her family. He stepped out of the small, crumbling apartment. The morning breeze hit him like cold steel, but it reminded him he was still alive. Not that many people cared whether he was or not.Just as he turned toward the main road, a woman stepped directly into his path. “Charlie!,” she said. Her voice was calm but filled with weight. Urgent, steady. He blinked, confused. “Do I know you?” “Not yet. But you will,” she said. “Listen carefully—you’re not who you think you are. You were once a War God. A protector of this nation. But something happened—an ambush. You lost your pow

Charlie had never felt so out of place. The grand office that now bore his name seemed more like a stage set than reality, a glittering cage of power where every move carried weight he wasn’t ready to bear. Linda, however, wasted no time. By the next morning, she had transformed his confusion into a carefully structured routine.“From today, you begin relearning what you built,” she said firmly, her eyes leaving no room for argument.And so began the crash course.Finance was first. A senior analyst from Skydome’s investment division filled the conference room with projections and charts. At first, Charlie sat stiffly, certain he would drown in the numbers. But as the analyst spoke, something strange happened. The formulas, ratios, and market movements began to untangle themselves in his head. His hand moved across the notepad, sketching corrections to forecasts before he realized it.The analyst froze mid-sentence. “Sir… that’s… that’s precisely the adjustment we were planning for ne

Charlie arrived at the hospital wing like a storm, his coat billowing slightly as he stepped into the fluorescent-lit corridor. Every second felt heavier than the last. Nurses and doctors parted instinctively, sensing the authority in his movements. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and tension, a scent that seemed to sharpen his senses further.Nancy’s mother lay in the same bed he had saved her from death before. Her eyes fluttered weakly, body convulsing with subtle tremors that spoke of an unseen battle raging within. Machines beeped erratically, monitors spiking with warning tones. Several doctors hovered over her, their expressions tight with anxiety.“She… she’s relapsed,” one whispered, glancing at the others for confirmation. “Even the Miracle Doctor might be powerless this time.”Charlie’s eyes narrowed. There was no panic in him—only sharp, clinical focus. His instincts, honed by years of survival and buried memory, guided his every movement. He crouched slightly beside