Returns Of God Of Medicine

Chapter 5

They dragged me deeper into the villa, the blindfold tight over my eyes, stealing sight but not awareness. I didn’t need vision. The floor told its own story beneath my boots—the subtle tilt of corridors, the shift from stone to polished wood. The air kept changing too. Cool. Warm. Dry. Filtered. Controlled.

Elevators gave themselves away every time. That faint drop in my gut. The low hum riding up my spine.

This wasn’t a villa.

It was a fortress built to confuse, to trap, to swallow people whole.

And yet, my focus stayed sharp.

Black Raptor.

A name spoken like a warning in the underworld. Not a man you hunted—one who allowed himself to be found. A shadow wearing flesh. People said meeting him meant you were already dead and just hadn’t realized it yet.

The guards tightened their grip, fingers digging into muscle. Iron hands. Silent men. Smart ones. But they were uneasy. I felt it in their steps, too quick, too stiff. Their breathing betrayed them.

They knew whose house this was.

And they knew what he did to mistakes.

The air warmed again. Voices drifted in from somewhere ahead, soft echoes brushing against high ceilings. My pulse picked up, not with fear—but recognition.

We were close.

A knock. Heavy. Measured.

A door creaked open.

“So,” a woman’s voice drawled, smooth and curious, “this is the guest?”

The blindfold came off.

Light stabbed my eyes. I blinked once.

Twice.

She was the first thing I saw—lean, relaxed, dangerous in an effortless way.

Denim shorts. Tank top. Confidence worn like a second skin. Her gaze skimmed over me, sharp and entertained, like she was already three steps ahead of whatever game this was.

Then I was shoved forward.

I stumbled, caught myself before I hit the floor. My jaw tightened, pride flaring for half a second before I crushed it down. When my vision settled, I finally took in the room.

It wasn’t what the stories promised.

No gold. No excess. No theatrical luxury.

Just space. Dark wood-paneled walls.

Shelves lined with books that had been read, not displayed. Leather. Old paper.

The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears and demanded respect.

And then—

Him.

He stood near the far side of the room, posture easy, presence overwhelming. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just… final. The kind of man the world bent around without realizing it had done so.

Master Luca Blackwood.

Code: 9412–Black Raptor–7.

The man who had haunted my thoughts for months sat behind a heavy wooden desk like he’d always belonged there. Master Luca Blackwood.

Age had brushed him lightly—silver threading his hair at the temples, glasses resting low on his nose. One hand held a worn book, the other a glass of dark amber liquor, untouched for who knew how long.

His posture was relaxed, almost careless.

But his eyes—

The moment they found me, everything inside my chest tightened. Those eyes hadn’t softened with age. They cut straight through flesh and bone, sharp enough to pin my soul in place.

I didn’t hesitate.

I dropped to one knee, bowed my head, and spoke with the respect carved into me by blood and discipline.

“Soren Black, Captain of the Aegis-9 Unit, reports to Master Luca Blackwood,” I said steadily.

“Code: 9412–Black Raptor–7.”

Silence swallowed the room.

It pressed against my ears, heavy and deliberate. I stayed kneeling, head lowered, spine straight. Waiting. Accepting whatever judgment came next.

Then—

The scrape of wood against the floor.

Master Luca pushed his chair back. Slow. Measured. I felt his presence move before I heard his steps. My heart thundered, not with fear—but with something dangerously close to reverence.

And then his voice came, lighter than I expected. Almost amused.

“So,” he said, “it really is you.”

My name followed, familiar and warm.

“Soren Black.”

The sound of it hit me harder than any blow ever had.

I looked up.

And froze.

He was smiling.

Not the cold, surgical smile the world feared but something real. For a moment, the monster the underworld whispered about didn’t exist.

Only my master stood before me.

Around us, I sensed movement, sharp inhales, stunned silence. The woman in shorts glanced at the towering guard.

Others at the edges of the room shifted, unsettled. They’d seen him destroy men without raising his voice.

They’d never seen him like this.

“I never thought I’d see this day,” Master Luca said as he stepped closer.

He crouched slightly and placed a firm hand on my shoulder. The contact sent a quiet shock through me. A reminder of bruised knuckles, endless drills, lessons learned the hard way.

“Soren Black,” he repeated softly.

“After all this time.”

Standing that close, I finally understood why men lowered their voices when they spoke his name.

Master Luca Blackwood’s gaze held a weight that had nothing to do with age or rank. It was earned. Carved from blood and silence. I’d heard the stories long before I ever met him—passed between soldiers in half-lit rooms, traded like contraband among mercenaries who knew better than to exaggerate.

Black Raptor.

Revered by some. Feared by most.

Of all the legends tied to him, one had always lingered longer than the rest. The kind of mission that made hardened operators go quiet when it was mentioned.

They called it Operation Night Serpent.

At the height of his career, Black Raptor had been sent alone into the heart of Colombia, tasked with breaching the compound of a warlord no one touched and lived to brag about. His name was Rafael “El Cortador” Ibarra—a butcher who ruled through terror, ringed by private armies and bought loyalties. Arms, flesh, secrets—nothing moved without his blessing.

And he kept records.

A ledger buried so deep in his fortress it might as well have been welded to his spine. Inside were names—generals, ministers, CEOs—men who smiled for cameras by day and signed contracts in blood by night. Proof of an international rot so vast it threatened to swallow governments whole.

Every attempt to retrieve it failed. Squads erased. Units buried. The mission had been stamped nonviable. Suicidal.

Master Luca took it anyway.

What turned the operation into legend wasn’t just that he succeeded—it was how.

Alone, he dismantled a stronghold guarded by hundreds. No backup. No casualties on his side. Not even a scar to mark the night. By dawn, the ledger was gone, the fortress silent, and the world’s most powerful men began to fall like dominos.

Arrests followed. Empires cracked. Names vanished from headlines overnight.

And Rafael Ibarra?

Forgotten.

Erased.

But Black Raptor became something else entirely.

Mercenaries whispered his name with a mix of awe and dread at the man who could outthink an army. Governments feared him because they knew the truth: power was fragile, and he knew exactly where to press.

I couldn’t help but wonder as I stood before Master Luca in the room : Was I standing before a man or a living myth?