THE LAST WAR GENERAL

The War God's Return 2

Dominic moved, his fist caught the nearest bodyguard in the throat, a surgical strike that dropped him instantly. Before the man hit the ground, Dominic's elbow shattered another's jaw. A third charged from behind; Dominic grabbed his arm, twisted, and the snap of breaking bone echoed through the cemetery.

Four seconds. Three men down.

The remaining thugs hesitated, exchanging uncertain glances.

Gregory's smirk faltered, but his confidence held. "Not bad for prison trash," he admitted, rolling his massive shoulders. "But you haven't fought ME yet."

He lunged forward with professional speed, a combination that had ended underground fights. His fist grazed Dominic's shoulder, then a body shot connected solidly with his ribs.

Gregory grinned savagely. "There it is! Five years in a cell made you soft!" He pressed forward, throwing another combination that forced Dominic back two steps. "What's wrong? Can't keep up with a real fighter?"

His next punch came harder, a straight right that had knocked out heavyweights.

Dominic caught it mid-strike, his hand closed around Gregory's fist, stopping it cold.

The grin died on Gregory's face.

"My turn," Dominic said softly.

He twisted Gregory's arm and drove him face-first into the muddy pit where his parents' graves had been. The impact was brutal and wet.

"Do you remember?" Dominic's voice was eerily calm as he hauled Gregory's head up by the hair. "Five years ago. The west wing of Kane Manor. You held my right hand down while they broke each finger."

He slammed Gregory's face down again. And again.

Two bodyguards charged. Dominic's boot caught one's knee—it bent backward with a sickening crunch. His free hand grabbed the second by the throat, squeezing until the man's struggles weakened, then threw him into a headstone.

All the while, he kept Gregory pinned.

"I'm not crying now." Dominic dragged Gregory's hand flat against broken concrete and raised his boot. "Let me show you what I learned."

He pressed down on Gregory's thumb slowly. The bone snapped with a crisp crack.

Gregory's scream was muffled by mud and blood.

"That's one."

Three more bodyguards rushed in desperately. Dominic moved with surgical efficiency, no wasted motion. An elbow shattered, a jaw broke. A knife clattered away. Fifteen seconds and they were down.

He returned to Gregory, methodically breaking each remaining finger. By the eighth, Gregory was sobbing, all arrogance gone.

The last bodyguards didn't move. They'd seen enough.

When all ten fingers were broken, Dominic grabbed Gregory by the hair and dragged him to the edge of his parents' destroyed graves.

"Kowtow," he commanded.

"Please—" Gregory's voice cracked.

"Kowtow to my parents, apologize."

Gregory's forehead hit the earth. Once. Twice, then twenty times. Blood streaked the mud with each impact until finally, he lost consciousness and collapsed.

Dominic stared down at him.

The man who had smiled and snapped his fingers five years ago now lay motionless in the dirt. Dominic crouched, gripping Gregory’s hair and forcing his head back. There was a sharp, unmistakable sound. 

When Dominic let go, the body no longer moved.

For a long moment, Dominic simply stood there, breathing slowly, letting the rage recede. Around him, fifteen men lay broken. Some unconscious, some crying. All wishing they'd never come.

Then, with infinite gentleness, Dominic knelt and began collecting the fragments of the urns, placing each piece carefully in his coat pockets.

The sound of helicopter rotors cut through the night like a declaration of war.

A military Black Hawk descended into the cemetery, its spotlight illuminating the scene of carnage below. Before it even touched down, a figure jumped from the side door and strode forward with the bearing of a man who'd commanded armies.

General Marcus Webb.

Not Lieutenant Colonel. Not some mid-level officer. Three stars general. Commander of the Northern Strike Force—the most elite military division in the nation. The man who'd orchestrated the legendary Siege of Blackwater Ridge, where five thousand soldiers under his command had held off an enemy force of fifty thousand for three brutal weeks, turning the tide of the entire war. He'd been awarded the Nation's Valor Cross twice—the highest military honor, given only to those who'd performed acts of extraordinary heroism under fire. They said the President consulted him personally on matters of national security. They said enemy nations had tried to assassinate him seventeen times and failed every time.

Marcus Webb was a living legend.

And he dropped to one knee in the mud before Dominic Kane without hesitation, his head bowed, his fist pressed to his chest in a salute of absolute respect.

"My Lord," Webb said, his voice tight with barely controlled fury at the scene before him—the destroyed graves, the scattered urn fragments, the broken men lying in their own blood.

One of the conscious bodyguards—a man with a shattered arm—stared at Webb with dawning horror. "That's... that's General Webb," he whispered. "The Butcher of Blackwater Ridge... what the fuck... what the fuck did we just do..."

Gregory, barely conscious, managed to turn his head enough to see the three stars on Webb's shoulder, visible even in civilian clothes. His remaining eye widened with the terrible understanding of just how catastrophically he'd miscalculated. This wasn't just some ex-con. This was someone who commanded the loyalty of living legends.

Webb ignored them all. His entire focus was on Dominic.

"My Lord, I've arranged for your parents to be moved to Memorial Heights—the nation's most prestigious military cemetery. Full honors. A honor guard of the Obsidian Corps will stand watch. The finest marble monuments. The preparations are already underway, and I've personally overseen every detail. They'll be laid to rest with the dignity befitting the parents of our War God."

Webb glanced at Gregory's body lying in the mud. "And this one, my Lord? What do you want me to do with him?"

Dominic didn't look up. "Put him in a coffin. I have a use for him."

Dominic nodded silently, still gathering the broken pieces, treating each fragment as if it were sacred.

"Sir, I also need to inform you..." Webb hesitated, his jaw tightening. "Every major family in Thornfield has submitted formal invitations, requesting the honor of your presence at their banquets. The mayor, the governor, corporate heads, old money families—everyone wants to host the War God. They're offering everything—business partnerships, political alliances, their daughters' hands in marriage."

"Decline them all," Dominic said without looking up.

"Yes, sir. However..." Another pause. "There's one invitation I thought you should know about specifically. The Kane family. Your family, sir. They've invited you to a grand celebration at Kane Manor tomorrow night."

The air froze again.

Dominic's hands stilled on the urn fragments. Slowly, he rose to his feet and turned to face Webb. The lieutenant colonel had served under Dominic for four years, had seen him face down entire battalions without flinching, but even he took an involuntary step back at the expression on his commander's face.

It wasn't rage. It was something far more terrifying—cold, calculated anticipation. The look of a predator that had finally found its prey.

A smile curved Dominic's lips, sharp as a blade's edge.

"Tell them," he said softly, each word precisely enunciated, "that I will attend. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Behind him, the wind howled through the ruined graves, carrying his promise into the night.

The War God had come home, and he had come for blood.