FROM PRISON TRASH TO GOD OF WAR

Chapter 2: Blood and Retribution

Alexander's world had narrowed to the empty pit before him. The carefully maintained graves he'd visited in his mind for five years—the promise that had sustained him through battles and bloodshed—were gone. Only muddy earth remained, littered with construction debris and shattered ceramic fragments.

He knelt slowly, picking up a piece of pottery. Part of his mother's urn. His fingers trembled.

The roar of engines shattered the cemetery's silence. Three black SUVs tore down the dirt road, their headlights cutting through the darkness. They skidded to a stop near the grave site, and doors flew open.

A dozen bodyguards emerged, dressed in black tactical gear, swaggering toward the destroyed graves like they owned the cemetery itself.

Alexander didn't move. His eyes tracked the leader—a tall man with a scar running down his left cheek, wearing an expensive leather jacket.

Derek Morrison. His stepmother's head of security. Former underground fighting champion with a record of forty-three consecutive victories, twenty-eight by knockout. The same man who'd held Alexander down five years ago while others shattered his hands and feet with metal rods.

Derek stopped mid-stride, his eyes widening in recognition before his face split into a vicious grin. "Well, I'll be damned. Boys, look what crawled out of hell."

"What is it, boss?" one of his men asked.

"Alexander Kane himself. The little prince who couldn't." Derek's laughter was harsh. "I heard you died in some prison riot. Guess the rumors were wrong."

The bodyguards crowded closer, studying Alexander with contempt.

"That's the Kane heir? Looks like a beggar!"

"Five years really did a number on him!"

Alexander stood slowly, his voice like ice. "Did you do this?"

Derek walked closer, his boots deliberately grinding the broken urn fragments deeper into the mud. "Do what? Oh, you mean this garbage we cleared out?" He kicked at the shattered ceramics, sending pieces scattering. "Yeah, that was us. Lady Victoria's orders. She wanted this whole section cleared for a new service road."

"Service road," Alexander repeated flatly.

"That's right. For the delivery trucks." Derek squatted down, picking up a shard of pottery and examining it with mock interest. "Your parents? We dug them up this morning. Honestly, I can't even remember where we dumped the remains. Maybe the landfill? Or was it the sewage treatment plant?" He tossed the fragment aside. "Hell, we might've just scattered them in the woods for the animals. Does it really matter?"

The other bodyguards roared with laughter.

"Boss, that's cold!"

"Dead beggars feeding the wildlife—at least they're finally useful!"

Derek's grin widened. "You know what Lady Victoria said when she saw these pathetic graves? She said, 'I can't believe we wasted even this much space on trash.' She wanted to pave right over them, but I convinced her to let us dig them up first. Thought it'd be funny to see if anything was left after five years in cheap coffins."

"And?" one guard asked eagerly.

"Bones and rot, mostly. Your mother's corpse had fallen apart pretty good." Derek looked directly at Alexander. "Guess she wasn't as pretty in death as she thought she was in life. All that begging she did before we killed her—'please spare my son, take everything, just don't hurt Alexander'—and for what? To rot in a pauper's grave like the nobody she was."

"Your old man wasn't any better," another guard chimed in. "Weak bastard died whimpering Victoria's name, begging her to take care of his precious boy. How'd that work out?"

Derek stood, grinding his heel into the mud where the graves had been. "Here's the best part, Alexander. See these tire tracks? After we dumped your parents' remains, Lady Victoria had us drive the construction trucks back and forth over this spot. Wanted to make sure it was properly compacted for the new road. So your mommy and daddy? They're literally part of the driveway now. Every time someone drives to the Kane Estate, they'll be rolling right over where your worthless parents used to be."

"Wheel ruts in the mud!" a guard howled with laughter.

"That's all they're good for—traction!"

Derek leaned in close, his breath reeking of cigarettes and alcohol. "And you? You're even more pathetic than they were. At least they had the decency to die quickly. You? You're like a cockroach that won't stay crushed. What are you going to do, pretty boy? Cry? Beg like your mother did?"

Alexander's expression remained unchanged, but something shifted in the air—a pressure that made the nearest guards unconsciously step back.

"You broke my hands five years ago," Alexander said quietly. "Which hand did you use?"

Derek blinked, then burst out laughing. "Oh, this is precious! Boys, I think the trash wants revenge!" He flexed his right hand. "This one, actually. These knuckles?" He held up his scarred fist. "These broke every finger in your left hand. Felt like crushing chicken bones. You screamed like a little bitch."

"I remember," Alexander said.

"Yeah? Well, here's what I remember—holding you down while you pissed yourself, crying for daddy." Derek's smile turned ugly. "What are you gonna do about it? You're one scrawny nobody, and I've got twelve trained killers with me. You think five years of hiding made you tough?"

"Try me," Alexander said.

Derek's grin faltered slightly at the absolute confidence in those words. Then he snorted and gestured to four of his men. "You heard him, boys. Teach this cockroach some manners. Don't kill him yet—I want him conscious when I break his hands again. Let's make it a tradition."

Four bodyguards moved forward, fanning out to surround Alexander.

 They were professionals—ex-military, mercenaries, the kind of men who'd seen real violence.

The first one lunged, throwing a trained combination. 

Alexander's hand shot up, caught the man's wrist mid-punch, and twisted. The shoulder joint separated with a wet pop.

 Before the man's scream left his throat, Alexander's knee drove up into his solar plexus, folding him in half.

The second guard came from behind with a tactical baton. Alexander pivoted, letting the weapon whistle past his head, then his elbow smashed backward into the man's face. Cartilage crunched. Blood sprayed.

The third and fourth attacked simultaneously, coordinated. Alexander ducked under their strikes, his leg sweeping out to take one man's knee sideways. The joint bent the wrong way with a sickening crack. As that guard went down screaming, Alexander rose and drove his palm into the fourth man's sternum. The impact lifted the bodyguard off his feet and sent him crashing into a tombstone.

Eight seconds. Four men down.

The remaining guards stared in shock.

"What the hell—"

"Get him! All of you!"

Six more rushed forward as a unit, a coordinated assault that should have overwhelmed any single fighter.

Should have.

Alexander moved through them like smoke. A throat strike dropped one. A dislocated elbow sent another screaming to the ground. He caught a punch, redirected it into the attacker's own face, then used the stumbling man as a shield against two others.

"Shoot him! Shoot him!"

A guard drew his pistol. Alexander's hand closed over the weapon before the man's finger found the trigger, directing the barrel skyward. His other hand drove into the guard's throat, crushing his windpipe. The gun fired uselessly into the air as the man collapsed, gasping.

The cemetery filled with screams and the sounds of breaking bones. No fancy techniques. No wasted movement. Just efficient, brutal violence honed by five years of war against hardened enemies who made these thugs look like children.

In twenty seconds, all ten bodyguards lay scattered across the cemetery, clutching broken limbs and whimpering.

Derek stood frozen, his earlier confidence evaporating. For the first time, real fear crept into his eyes.

"That's... that's impossible. Who the hell are you?"

Alexander walked toward him slowly, deliberately. "I'm the son of Thomas and Margaret Kane. The people you desecrated."

"Wait—wait, let's talk about this!" Derek backed up, his hands raised. "I was just following orders! Victoria made me do it! I'll testify against her! I'll tell you everything!"

"You held me down," Alexander said, still advancing. "You laughed while they broke every bone in my hands. You just told me how you scattered my parents' remains like garbage."

"I'm sorry! God, I'm so sorry!" Derek's back hit a tombstone. "Please, I'll make it right! I'll find your parents' remains! I'll—"

Derek's fist suddenly shot out—a desperate haymaker from a trained fighter, fast and powerful, forty-three underground victories' worth of killer instinct behind it.

Alexander caught the fist in his palm.

Derek's eyes went wide. He tried to pull back, but Alexander's grip was like iron. The former champion threw his other fist. Alexander caught that one too.

"You want to know what five years of war taught me?" Alexander's voice was eerily calm. "How to break men who are actually dangerous. You?" He squeezed.

Derek's knuckles began to crack under the pressure. "AHHH! Stop! Please!"

"You're not dangerous. You're just a bully who preys on the helpless." Alexander released one hand and drove his fist into Derek's solar plexus. The man doubled over, gasping. "Like my eighteen-year-old self, drugged and defenseless. Like my elderly parents' graves."

Alexander's boot came down on Derek's right hand. Hard.

"AHHHHH!" Derek's scream echoed off the tombstones.

Alexander pressed down slowly, methodically. The first finger snapped.

"Remember this?" Alexander's voice remained calm. "This is what you did to me."

"Please! God, please stop!"

Second finger. Crack.

"You held me down. You laughed while they broke every bone in my hands."

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I'll do anything!"

Third finger. Fourth. Fifth. Each one breaking with deliberate precision, the former champion's hand becoming a mangled ruin.

"Your apology means nothing."

Derek sobbed hysterically, his body going into shock. "Please... please..."

Alexander released his foot, then grabbed Derek by his hair, dragging him through the mud toward his parents' destroyed graves. "Kowtow."

"What?"

Alexander slammed Derek's head into the ground. "Apologize to them."

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" Derek's forehead hit the earth.

"Again."

THUD. Blood mixed with mud.

"Again!"

THUD. Derek's voice grew weaker.

"AGAIN!"

THUD. THUD. THUD.

Derek's forehead split open, blood pouring down his face. His eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious.

Alexander stood slowly, his breathing steady despite the violence. Around him, the moaning bodyguards stared in terror at what they'd just witnessed—their invincible boss, the underground champion they'd thought untouchable, broken and bloody in the mud.

Alexander knelt beside the shattered urn fragments and began collecting them, one piece at a time, his movements gentle now.

Alexander stood slowly, his breathing steady despite the violence. He knelt beside the broken urn fragments and began collecting them, one piece at a time, his movements gentle now.

The whup-whup-whup of helicopter blades cut through the air. A sleek black helicopter descended, landing fifty yards away

. A man in civilian clothes—expensive suit, military bearing—stepped out and strode toward Alexander.

Colonel Marcus Bennett. The Crimson Reaper.

In military circles, that name alone commanded fear and respect. Former commander of the nation's most elite special forces unit, Bennett had led seventy-three classified operations across four continents with zero mission failures. He'd single-handedly extracted a kidnapped ambassador from a terrorist compound, eliminated an entire enemy battalion during the siege of Kandor, and was rumored to have assassinated three hostile nation leaders in operations that officially never happened.

The man had fifteen commendations for valor, could speak seven languages fluently, held black belts in four martial arts, and was considered one of the deadliest operatives in the Western hemisphere. Foreign intelligence agencies had bounties on his head totaling over fifty million dollars. His subordinates called him "sir" with a mixture of reverence and terror.

Yet the moment Marcus Bennett's boots touched the cemetery ground, he dropped to one knee, fist over his heart, head bowed low.

"General Kane."

The moaning bodyguards scattered across the cemetery stared in disbelief. Derek, barely conscious, managed to lift his head, blood streaming down his face, his eyes widening in horror as recognition dawned.

"Report," Alexander said, not looking up from gathering the urn fragments.

"Sir, I've arranged for specialized recovery teams to locate and transport your parents' remains to Arlington Heights Memorial—the highest-standard cemetery in the nation. Full military honors. The relocation will be completed by dawn." Marcus remained kneeling, his tone absolutely deferential. "I've also mobilized forensic specialists to ensure every trace of their remains is recovered from this site. Nothing will be left behind."

Alexander continued his careful work. "Good."

"Sir, there's another matter." Marcus hesitated. Even the Crimson Reaper seemed cautious about his next words. "All the major families in the city have submitted formal invitations. They want the War God to attend their banquets. The mayor, the governor, every CEO and tycoon—everyone wants an audience with you."

"Declined."

"Yes, sir. I've already begun sending rejections." Marcus paused. "However... The Kane family has also extended an invitation. Your stepmother, Victoria Kane, is hosting a celebration banquet tomorrow night at the Kane Estate. She's inviting the War God to be the guest of honor. She doesn't know who you really are—she thinks she's courting favor with the legendary general."

The air seemed to freeze.

Alexander stood slowly, a shard of ceramic still in his palm. When he smiled, it was the expression of a predator sighting prey.

"Is that so?"

The killing intent radiating from him made Marcus—a man who'd stared down warlords and terrorists without flinching—take an involuntary step back.

"Tell them," Alexander said softly, "that I will attend. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Marcus saluted sharply. "Yes, General. Should I arrange security? I can have a full tactical team in position around the estate within twelve hours. Snipers, close protection, rapid response—"

"No. I'll go alone."

"Sir, with respect—" Marcus's face showed genuine concern. Even he seemed uncomfortable with this decision. "The Kane family has significant private security. Your stepmother employs over thirty armed guards, many with military backgrounds. If things escalate—"

"Alone, Colonel." Alexander's tone left no room for argument. "This is personal."

Marcus studied his general's face for a moment, then bowed his head. "Understood, sir." 

He knew better than to argue when Alexander used that voice. He'd seen what happened to enemies who underestimated the man he called General. "I'll have emergency extraction on standby regardless, in case you need us."

"That won't be necessary."

"Yes, sir." Marcus rose to his feet, still maintaining perfect military bearing. "General, if I may... give them hell."

The faintest hint of approval flickered across Alexander's face. "Dismissed."

As the helicopter lifted off, Alexander turned back to his parents' graves one final time. 

He carefully placed the collected fragments in a cloth he'd found, wrapping them with reverence.