RETURN OF THE GOD OF WAR

A black SUV rolled to a slow, steady stop in front of a small hotel tucked between two taller, flashier buildings. The vehicle’s dark body gleamed faintly under the dim streetlights. Its engine went quiet, like a predator settling into silence.

Before the SUV had fully stopped, the driver’s door swung open. A soldier in uniform jumped out quickly, moving with purpose as he circled around to the rear passenger door. He opened it with sharp precision, then stood at attention; his hand lifted in a firm salute, his heels together, eyes straight ahead. But his hands trembled.

From inside the vehicle, a man stepped out calmly.

He carried a rugged black backpack over one shoulder. He was tall and strong, wearing a fitted black shirt under a zipped-up tactical jacket. His dark military pants were tucked into heavy combat boots. His presence was unsettling. His thick brown hair fell just low enough to touch his forehead, partly hiding his sharp eyes. A black cap shaded most of his face, almost like he wanted to hide who he was.

But even with the cap, no one could miss the powerful aura he carried.

His jaw was sharp and firm, dusted with a rough beard that made him look like a man who had been to countless war and battles. He wore no expensive clothes or visible brands—nothing flashy, nothing loud.

He stood there for a moment, eyes closed.

He took a deep breath in.

Then let it out slowly, as if adjusting to being back in a world where .

Then he opened his eyes and turned to the soldier, who was still standing in salute. The young man tried to stay still, but the weight of the man’s gaze made him shake even more.

He was about to speak when something happened.

From the edge of the sidewalk, a woman suddenly rushed forward.

“Sir!” the soldier shouted in alarm. His training kicked in, and his hand went straight to his weapon. In one motion, he drew his sidearm and cocked the hammer, aiming at the rushing figure.

But before he could pull the trigger, the man raised one gloved hand.

The soldier froze. His gun was still aimed at the woman, but he didn’t move.

The woman stumbled the last few steps and collapsed forward, her hand grabbing the man’s chest to stay upright. Her breathing was rough. Her body shook. Her eyes were wide and desperate, red around the edges. She didn’t just look tired. She looked poisoned; something deeper than exhaustion.

“Help me,” she whispered, her voice weak and breaking.

And then, she fainted.

The man caught her easily before she hit the ground. One arm held her body close. The other tightened around his backpack. His eyes, now colder, harder, looked straight at the soldier.

“You’re dismissed,” he said in a low, sharp voice.

The soldier dropped his salute right away. He bowed slightly and stepped back. “Goodnight, my lord,” he murmured, then quickly got back into the SUV and drove off, leaving the quiet street behind.

The man didn’t say another word. He turned and started walking toward the hotel, carrying the woman like she weighed nothing.

He had never seen her before. Didn’t know her name. Her face wasn’t familiar. Her voice didn’t ring any bells. But he could feel it in her skin. In her breath. In her eyes before she passed out.

She had been drugged.

Something serious. Something dangerous.

But first, he needed a room.

Inside the hotel lobby, cool air from the air conditioning brushed against him as he stepped through the glass doors. The space was quiet, dimly lit, and nearly empty.

Behind the front desk, a young receptionist looked up. She wore heavy eyeliner and had a tired, annoyed look on her face. Her eyes quickly scanned him, then widened when she saw the unconscious woman in his arms.

“Excuse me,” she said sharply, her voice full of suspicion. “What is going on? Why are you carrying an unconscious woman into this hotel at this hour?”

He didn’t answer. He simply walked forward, calm and steady.

“I need a room,” he said. “Now.”

The woman stood up, frowning. “Absolutely not. This looks wrong. It’s suspicious. I’m calling security.”

He stayed silent. Just stared at her. No words. No expression. But his silence was heavy, more powerful than yelling.

Within seconds, two security guards arrived. They were big men, wearing tight uniforms and confident smirks, like they were ready to pick a fight.

One of them pointed at him. “Hey, what’s going on? Who are you? Put her down, now.”

The receptionist folded her arms across her chest. “He’s definitely up to something. You should throw him out. Or better yet, call the police.”

The second guard stepped closer. His tone was firm, almost threatening. “You’ve got three seconds to walk out of here before we make you leave.”

John finally spoke. His voice was low and cold. “I don’t want any trouble. I just want a room.”

The first guard grinned. “Oh, you’ll get something, alright.”

He swung a baton toward John’s head.

But John tilted his body slightly and stepped back, still holding the woman securely in his arms. The baton cut through nothing but air.

A small crowd had begun to gather in the lobby, curious eyes watching from the shadows of stairwells and halls. John noticed. His jaw clenched slightly, almost irritated by the attention.

He hated crowds.

Then his cold eyes met the guards again.

“So… the hard way, then,” he muttered.

He gently laid the unconscious woman on the cool, tiled floor.

The first guard didn’t wait.

With a sharp yell, he charged forward, swinging his baton toward John’s shoulder. The other followed fast, circling to the side, baton already raised for a strike to the ribs.

John didn’t flinch.

In one quick move, he leaned forward and gently lowered the unconscious woman to the floor. He placed her beside the front desk, her head resting softly on the carpet. His hands were calm, controlled—like this wasn’t new to him. Like he’d done it before.

Then he stood up.

The first baton came flying at his face.

He tilted his head slightly to the left. The metal rod missed him by an inch, slicing through the air with a whistle. Before the guard could pull back, John’s elbow shot forward like a piston. It cracked hard against the man’s chin.

There was a sharp grunt—and the guard flew backward, crashing into a flower vase stand near the lobby wall. Glass shattered. He hit the ground and didn’t move.

The second guard didn’t hesitate. He swung hard, aiming for John’s ribs. But John twisted just enough to absorb the hit on his arm. The baton bounced off, but John barely reacted.

Before the guard could swing again, John grabbed his wrist with one hand and slammed his free palm into the man’s chest. Once. Twice. Then a third time, harder. The guard staggered back, coughing violently, breath knocked out of him.

John didn’t stop.

He stepped forward and drove his knee into the man’s stomach. The guard bent over with a sharp gasp, and John brought his elbow down against the back of his neck; fast, brutal, and final.

The man dropped and fell unconscious immediately.

The room fell still.

The receptionist stared in horror, her hands frozen above the phone. Her mouth hung open, words caught in her throat. Chairs were knocked over. One of the lobby plants had tipped, dirt scattered across the floor. A shattered lamp buzzed weakly near the corner.

John’s chest rose and fell slowly. He stood tall, unshaken. Not a hair out of place.

He looked down at the woman lying at the base of the front desk. Still unconscious. Still breathing.

Then he turned his cold eyes to the receptionist.

“I told you,” he said, voice like ice. “I don’t want trouble.”

A man in a tailored grey suit hurried into the lobby, demanding answers.

“What the hell is going on here?”

John turned toward him calmly.

“You the manager?”

The man nodded slowly.

John reached into his cargo pants pocket and pulled out a black card. He held it out wordlessly.

The manager stepped closer, and stopped cold.

His eyes went wide. The blood drained from his face.

On the card was a military insignia, a golden crest embedded with a dragon and crossed swords. At its center, engraved in blood-red lettering, was a title.

GOD OF WAR.

A military title so rare and elite that only a handful on Earth could claim it. And yet here stood a man dressed like a drifter… holding that very card.

The manager’s knees buckled. He dropped to the floor, forehead pressed to the tiles in a submissive bow.

“Forgive me,” he breathed, shaking. “Please forgive us. We didn’t know, my lord…”

All eyes in the room turned toward the bowed manager, stunned. Even the receptionist’s eyes widened with horror. She stepped back slowly, suddenly aware of how badly she had misjudged him.

She was trembling now, her lips quivering as she stared at the man she’d insulted moments ago.

“Stand,” John ordered.

The manager scrambled to his feet.

“Get me a room.”

“Yes, right away.” He turned on the receptionist, voice now loud and vicious. “You! You’re fired!”

“No... please!” she wailed, collapsing to her knees. “I didn’t know—I swear I didn’t know! Please, I’m sorry!”

“Security!” the manager barked. More men rushed in. He pointed at the receptionist. “Drag this foolish woman out of here! Now!”

They obeyed without hesitation. The receptionist screamed and begged as they seized her arms and hauled her through the lobby and out the door, her cries echoing behind them.

The manager turned, breathless, to John. He reached into his inner coat and pulled out a gleaming keycard.

“This is our elite suite, sir. No charge. Please, accept it as a token of our shame.”

John pocketed his military card again, took the keycard silently, then turned to pick up the unconscious woman.

As he did, the manager hurried forward to grab his backpack and fell in step beside him.

“I’ll escort you to the elevator, my lord.”

And without another word, John followed him, his boots echoing heavily against the marble as he carried the woman toward the upper floors, his face unreadable.