Returns Of God Of Medicine

Chapter 1

Soren Black.

(Blackspire Penitentiary)

The gates of Blackspire Penitentiary groaned open like a beast finally exhaling after years of holding its breath.

Five helicopters chopped the sky overhead, rotors beating the air into submission. Blacked-out police cruisers formed a silent ring around the perimeter, no sirens, just the low growl of engines and the flash of red-blue lights swallowed by the gray dawn.

I stepped beyond the threshold, slinging the thin canvas bag over my shoulder.

I pulled in a breath.

A figure approached across the cracked concrete apron. Late forties, two stars pinned to broad shoulders, He wore a Stern expression.

I snapped a salute. “Director Warde.”

For a heartbeat the silence stretched thin and brittle between us.

Then his mouth twitched. “You’ve gone Fat, Soren.”

I let out a rough laugh. “Five years of prison slop will do that, sir.”

We both broke then, the sound rolling out low and real.

For a heartbeat, we were just two men laughing under a hostile sky.

His expression sobered too fast. “I’m sorry it took six years to pull you out.”

I shifted the bag higher on my shoulder, the strap biting into my coat. “If it weren’t for you, I’d still be fertilizer in some foreign hole. I owe you everything, Director.”

Warde’s jaw tightened. “You were supposed to be extracted after the Nightfall Accord, Soren. But the leak…”

Nightfall Accord had been designed to locate the headquarters of the Nyx Serum program—a biotoxin powerful enough to erase cities without leaving a sound.. I’d led the strike team, handpicked from the Aegis-9 Unit, an experimental force built to combat bio-terrorism.

I lost my point man then. Liam Brennan.

Liam “Hawk” Brennan had been more than a point man. More than a soldier.

He was the one who’d dragged me out of a collapsing building in Kandahar three years earlier. The one who’d laughed like a madman while stitching my side with dental floss, cracking jokes like pain was optional. A brother in every way that counted.

I still saw the moment the round punched through his throat. The way his eyes widened before the light guttered out. I’d gone blind with it. Rage so hot it burned the edges of my vision red.

I crossed the border and walked into that facility alone, long after the rest of the team had cleared out.

Over fifty men died by my hand that day.

I made certain none of them walked away.

The government called it unsanctioned. Disavowed the whole op.

Director Ward’s influence was the only reason I wasn’t left to die, the only reason my sentence had been cut to five years.

My throat closed. “I am sorry, I failed the team.”

“No, you didn't fail us. You carried what was left of us out of there.” His gaze didn’t waver. “We’ll find the truth. Together.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders easing just enough to notice. “Dr. Ronan Whitaker is still breathing free air. Interpol picked up his trail last week. He crossed into Chicago.”

Ward continued, his voice steady, professional. “He went off the grid. But recent intel suggests he’s preparing to return to the country.”

I felt it before he finished—the direction this conversation was headed.

“Director,” I said, keeping my tone level, “I appreciate the briefing, but—”

“Soren.” Ward cut me off. “We need you.”

The certainty in his voice made my jaw tighten.

“Your experience. Your history with the Nyx Serum,” he continued. “You’re the only one who’s ever gotten close enough to Dr. Calder Roan to understand how he thinks.”

I shook my head slowly.

“I’ve done my part, sir. I want something peaceful. A life that doesn’t belong to the dark anymore.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed. “You’re not hearing me. This isn’t about unfinished missions. People will die if Roan isn’t stopped.” He held my gaze. “You know that.”

I didn’t look away.

“I trust Aegis-9,” I said. “You built them well. They can finish this without me.”

For a long moment, he studied my face, like he was measuring how far I’d already gone.

Then his expression softened.

“If you won’t stay involved,” Ward said quietly, “then at least go see your teachers.”

The words hit lower than I expected.

They say great teachers shape great students. I had two who’d shaped everything I was.

Master Adrian Hale. And Luca Voss.

Adrian had found me half-dead in a back-alley clinic in London years ago, his steady hands pressing poultices to wounds that should've killed me. He taught me the quiet art of medicine.

His voice had always been calm, almost gentle, even when he was forcing me to relearn every herb by touch and scent alone. "Healing isn't power, Soren," he'd say, eyes crinkling behind wire frames. "It's mercy you give yourself first.”

Master Luca I'd met by chance in a rain-soaked courtyard in Florence, Italy. He taught me control wasn't about holding back. It was about choosing exactly when to unleash. One wrong breath, and the wolf inside would tear everything apart. One right one, and it became something almost beautiful.

I glanced back, memory flickering across my face.

“I’ll visit them soon, sir.”

Ward stepped closer and pressed a folder into my hand.

“One of them is critically ill, Sore ,” he said. “I need you to understand that.”

My gaze dropped to the folder. I didn’t open it. I didn’t need to.

The weight of it burned against my palm, sinking straight into my chest.

I nodded once.

“Alright.”

Without another word, I turned and walked away, the folder clenched tight in my hand.

I didn’t look back.

“Come back anytime, Soren. You are forever welcome.” Ward’s voice carried across the wind, sharp and commanding, even as it faded into the distance.

—------------------------------------------

I stepped off the bus and onto the small town square. The sun had dropped low, painting the sky in bruised purples and golds. I checked my watch, the sky slipping faster than I’d realized.

Then I saw him. A familiar figure weaving through the crowd. He wore a deep navy jacket over a crisp white shirt, his dark hair pulled back into a messy ponytail that somehow suited him. His eyes were alive, bright as ever, and they locked onto me the instant I appeared.

“Soren, you bastard,” he called, already striding toward me with that loose, easy gait he’d always had, “you really thought you could sneak back in without me knowing?”

He closed the distance in a few quick strides and threw his arms around me, hugging me so tightly I thought I might collapse.

I laughed, half in surprise, half in relief, pushing gently at his chest.

“Jasper,” I said, trying to free myself from the bear hug.

Jasper Black—my older brother.

“I told you not to come, Jasper. I’m fine,” I said, though the tightness in my chest betrayed me.

He stepped back just enough to grin, his dark eyes sparkling. “I’ve missed you, little bro. You’re stuck with me now.”

Our family hadn’t always been like this.

Once, we were small and whole, happy in a way you don’t realize is precious until it’s gone.

Then I made one reckless mistake, and it buried us beneath a ten-million-dollar debt. The memory still crept up on me, sudden and suffocating.

Mom and Dad died in a car accident. Trapped inside. The fire took them before anyone could help. The authorities called it a suicide.

Jasper and I knew better.

That year didn’t just break us—it split us clean down the middle.

Jasper did what he always did. He protected me. Found a way to shove me into the military before the debt, the questions, or the people circling us could drag me under.

I spent the last year working as a mercenary, learning what violence really cost.

I owed him more than words could cover.

Jasper’s eyes lit up, that familiar spark breaking through the weight between us.

“Come on,” he said lightly. “Let’s get a drink. We need to celebrate you being back.”

I slid into his sleek black sports car, the leather cool under my hands, the cabin carrying a faint scent of cedar. Jasper had always liked things that looked expensive.

As we pulled away, I studied him from the passenger seat. Tailored suit. Expensive watch. Hair styled just enough to look effortless.

He’d paid off the debt.

The realization settled slow and heavy. He was doing more than surviving. He was thriving while I was gone.

We turned into a private estate lined with towering mansions, gates sliding open without hesitation. Jasper parked and popped the trunk, pulling out a chilled bottle of wine.

“Welcome home, little bro.”

Inside, the villa swallowed us whole, marble floors, soft lighting.

Then I saw her.

A woman sat in the living room. Her green eyes cut straight through me. At her feet, a little girl with the same dark curls and bright gaze sat cross-legged, humming softly as she dressed a doll.

Jasper froze.

In one quick motion, he hid the wine behind his back like a guilty teenager. His voice wavered.

“Mara… I thought you said you’d be away until next month.”

My gaze sharpened.

Who the hell was Mara?

Her eyes locked on Jasper, shock flickering into something colder.

“What’s going on?” she asked.

I glanced at my brother. His shoulders were tense, his eyes darting—calculating, cornered.

“Jasper,” I said quietly. “Who is she?”

He swallowed.

“Soren, this is… Mara. My wife.”

The word landed wrong.

Wife?

Before I could process it, Jasper spoke again,with Mara still watching Jasper like he might disappear.

“And this is our daughter,” he said, resting a hand on the little girl’s shoulder. “Lyra.”

I stepped forward, extending my hand out of instinct.

Mara didn’t take it.

Her expression hardened, eyes blazing as she looked at me with hostility.

“You’re not welcome here,” she said sharply. “Get out.”