The airport terminal buzzed with anticipation. Fighter jets carved patterns across the gray sky, their engines roaring in formation. Below, tens of thousands of special forces soldiers stood at attention, their rifles gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

Among the crowd of waiting dignitaries, Marcus Hayard—CEO of Hayard Industries—wiped sweat from his brow despite the air conditioning. "Any sign of him yet?"

"Nothing," replied Victoria Stone, adjusting her diamond necklace nervously. "We've been standing here for four hours."

"Four hours is nothing," Marcus hissed. "If we can get even thirty seconds with the War God, our families will dominate this city for generations."

Around them, hundreds of wealthy tycoons and politicians jostled for position, each hoping to catch the first glimpse of the legendary figure who had turned the tide of war single-handedly.

"I heard he captured General Volkov himself," someone whispered.

"Alone. He went alone into enemy territory and dragged him out."

"The President himself appointed him. The only War God in our nation's history."

The crowd surged forward as military vehicles approached, only to groan in disappointment when junior officers emerged instead.

Miles away, the Riverside Cemetery lay forgotten beneath dark, churning clouds. Knee-high weeds choked the pathways between weathered tombstones. The wind howled through broken gates, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and decay.

Alexander Kane stood at the entrance, his military uniform traded for simple civilian clothes. His face, hardened by five years of war, softened slightly as he gazed at the neglected graveyard.

"Sir, are you certain you don't want us to accompany you?" his second-in-command had asked before dropping him off.

"I'm certain. Keep those vultures busy at the airport."

Now, Alexander walked alone through the overgrown paths, following half-buried memories. His parents had been laid to rest here—hastily, unceremoniously, like unwanted trash. The thought made his jaw clench.

Five years ago, they'd destroyed everything. His uncle Robert and stepmother Victoria had orchestrated it with surgical precision: drugged him at his father's wedding reception, staged a false accusation, then beaten him half to death in his own courtyard while the household staff—guards and servants he'd known since childhood—took turns with metal rods. They'd shipped him off to rot in a bribed prison cell, expecting him dead within the week.

But not before Victoria had whispered the truth in his ear as he lay bleeding on the stone courtyard. His father, already dying—not from illness, but from slow-acting poison administered daily in his meals. His mother, dead five years before that, her car accident no accident at all but carefully arranged murder. Victoria had laughed as she described how Margaret Kane had begged on her knees: "Please, don't hurt Alexander. He's innocent. Take everything, just don't hurt my son."

They'd taken everything. The Kane family fortune, the estate, the business empire his grandfather had built. And they'd left his parents to rot in this abandoned cemetery, buried like paupers in unmarked shame.

Alexander pushed deeper into the overgrown paths until he found them: two tilted stone tablets, barely legible, nearly swallowed by weeds.

Margaret Kane. Beloved Wife.

Thomas Kane. Devoted Father.

He knelt, pulling away the vegetation with his bare hands, his jaw tight with barely contained rage.

"I'm back," he whispered. "And they're going to pay for what they did to you. Every single one of them."