2025-10-18 06:38:58The call came at exactly 7:13 a.m. Charlie glanced at the caller ID and sighed. Nancy. He picked up.
“Get to Central Hospital. Mom’s condition has worsened. They need blood. Again.” Her voice was flat—no gratitude, no concern. Just an order.
“Alright,” he replied quietly, already grabbing his coat. His face was still pale from the last donation, but that didn’t seem to matter to Nancy—or anyone else in her family.
He stepped out of the small, crumbling apartment. The morning breeze hit him like cold steel, but it reminded him he was still alive. Not that many people cared whether he was or not.
Just as he turned toward the main road, a woman stepped directly into his path.
“Charlie!,” she said. Her voice was calm but filled with weight. Urgent, steady.
He blinked, confused. “Do I know you?”
“Not yet. But you will,” she said. “Listen carefully—you’re not who you think you are. You were once a War God. A protector of this nation. But something happened—an ambush. You lost your powers… and your memory.”
He stared at her like she’d grown wings. “What?”
“I don’t expect you to believe me,” she said, pulling something from her coat. “But everything you know about yourself is a lie. You were once the most feared and respected man alive. And soon… you’ll remember.”
Charlie shook his head. “Look, lady—I don’t have time for this. I have somewhere I need to be.” He tried to move past her, but she blocked him again.
“Take this,” she insisted, forcing a business card into his hand. “If you don’t believe me now, that’s fine. But tomorrow… everything changes.”
Before he could respond, she turned and vanished into the early crowd like smoke. Charlie looked down at the card in his hand, but didn’t read it. He shoved it into his pocket and kept walking.
War God? What kind of nonsense was that?
The hospital stank of antiseptic and strained nerves. Cold fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like insects. Charlie walked in, and instantly, Nancy was there—arms folded, expression carved from ice.
“You took your sweet time,” she snapped.
“I came as fast as I could,” he said.
“You always have an excuse, don’t you?” she muttered, not even bothering to look him in the eye. “The nurse is ready. Don’t waste time.”
He followed her down the corridor, dragging his feet slightly. The last donation had taken a toll on him. But complaints weren’t allowed in this marriage.
Soon, he was lying on a stiff bed, arm stretched out. The nurse inserted the needle with practiced coldness.
As the blood began to drain, Charlie stared at the ceiling. His vision blurred at the edges. 600ml. By the end of it, he was already dizzy.
Nancy didn’t even glance at him. Instead, her expression lit up when a sharply dressed man entered the hallway. Carl Kidman. Polished shoes. Tailored suit. Hair like he just walked out of a magazine. He radiated wealth.
“Carl! You came!” Nancy’s tone did a full 180. Sweet. Warm. “Thank you so much. I really don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Carl smirked. “I called in a few favors. Your mom’s condition… It's complicated. But we might have a solution.”
Then he turned and gave Charlie a glance. One look was enough to say everything. Contempt. Disgust. Superiority.
Nancy leaned closer to Carl and said, almost whispering, “Looks like this useless thing is no longer needed.” Charlie bit down on the inside of his cheek. Hard. But he stayed silent.
A doctor came out a moment later, holding a tablet. “We’ve reviewed her scans. It’s rare—but not hopeless. There’s only one person with the skill to operate: the Miracle Doctor.”
Nancy gasped. “Is that true?”
The doctor nodded. “But he’s very difficult to reach. She’s selective… and expensive.”
Carl puffed out his chest. “Don’t worry. I’ll bring her here. My family still has influence.”
Then Carl flicked his gaze toward the doctor—and the doctor gave a slight nod. Too fast for Nancy to notice, but Charlie caught it.
“We may need more blood,” the doctor said, far too casually. “As backup.” Nancy didn’t hesitate.
“Draw more.” Charlie’s body tensed.
“No… I already gave too much. Anymore and it’ll—”
“Oh please,” Nancy sneered. “You’re still breathing. That’s enough.”
The nurse hesitated, but Nancy barked, “I said draw more! Leave him with one last breath if you must!”
Charlie tried to resist, but his arm was like lead. His vision was already tilting, and now… he was falling deeper into it. They drained more blood. He could feel his heart slowing. His breath was shallow, his limbs numb. Everything was fading.
Nancy didn’t care. She turned and walked away with Carl, laughing at something he said. The nurse pulled out the needle and left without a word. Charlie lay there, alone. Half-dead. He couldn’t lift his head. His hand twitched, reaching for his phone. But instead, something slipped out of his pocket.
The card. The one the woman had given him. He blinked slowly, dragging it toward him with the last flicker of strength he had left. He turned it over—and froze.
“Secretary of Miracle Doctor: Linda Sarman.”
His heart thudded once. Hard. Linda… the woman who stopped him earlier. The one Nancy and Carl were desperately trying to find so she could link them. She’d already found him. That couldn’t be a coincidence. That couldn’t be a lie. Could it?
He stared at the name, his fingers trembling. Was this why she told him he’d remember soon? Was she not only the secretary of the miracle doctor—but also the key to unlocking his forgotten past?
The sound of nurses chatting in the hall blurred into noise. Charlie’s breath was shallow, but in his mind, everything had gone sharp. If this woman was the only one who could save Nancy’s mother, then what did that make him? A pawn? A stepping stone? Or the one person who held all the power—and simply hadn’t realized it yet?
His eyes burned with exhaustion, but there was a flicker inside him now. A spark. Something he hadn’t felt in years. It was faint, almost impossible to define. But it was there. The woman had called him a War God. She said he’d been the nation’s protector. That he had power, wealth, and influence beyond imagination. And now she’d come back—just as Carl and Nancy needed her the most.
Charlie gritted his teeth weakly. Let them think he was useless. Let them walk over him one more time.
But tomorrow… Tomorrow, everything changes.
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Chapter 36
The once-impenetrable fortress of Prometheus lies in ruin. What was once a monolith of glass, steel, and ambition now smolders under a sky bruised purple by smoke and rain. Flames lick the jagged remains of the central spire, casting long, trembling shadows over the shattered emblem of Prometheus that had once crowned the skyline. For a brief moment, silence reigns—the kind of silence that follows cataclysm, heavy and unnatural.But the quiet doesn’t last. Within hours, the world begins to rebuild the story.Every news feed across every continent lights up with a single, stunning image: a lone figure in surgical whites walking through the inferno, calm and unburned. The footage—grainy yet mesmerizing—shows the figure’s face illuminated by firelight, his eyes pale and resolute. The caption below it reads: “The Miracle Doctor Survives.”The clip spreads faster than the flames ever did. News anchors frame it as a symbol of resilience; influencers call it divine intervention. Governments
Chapter 35
Two hours before dawn, the storm rolled in over the mountains like a living thing, its clouds swollen and bruised, dragging sheets of rain across the jagged skyline. The Prometheus complex loomed beneath it—a black monolith of glass and steel carved into the mountain’s edge, veins of blue light running through its frame like liquid electricity. Lightning ripped across the sky, briefly illuminating the fortress’s defense turrets and drones that patrolled the perimeter with mechanical precision. Every surface glistened under the storm’s lash, reflecting the pulse of a civilization that thought itself immortal. Inside a silent stealth transport descending through the mist, Charlie’s team prepared for insertion. The air was thick with static and tension, the kind that hums before a war no one will write about. Raiden sat opposite him, armor patched with old scars of conflict, running final checks on his weapon’s magnetic coils. “Systems green,” Raiden muttered, his deep voice steady as gr
Chapter 34
The boardroom at Prometheus Tower hung over the city like an altar, glass walls reflecting a skyline that pulsed in sympathy with the company’s heartbeat—billboards and clinics and ticker feeds all dressed in the same pale flame logo, the promise of eradicated sickness stitched into every commercial. Investors lounged in leather chairs, generals in crisp uniforms nodded with the relieved posture of men who had bought an insurance plan for civil unrest, and a chorus of analysts lauded forecasts that read like sermons. Carl stood at the head of the table, silhouette thin against the panoramic light, and his voice moved through the room with the soft, practiced cadence of a man who had learned to sell absolution. “The era of disease is over,” he declared, palms open as though offering a benediction. “Prometheus doesn’t just cure—it improves.” Applause rose like a tide; the applause was polite, rehearsed, and hungry. The cheer sounded to him like the rustle of paper—noise that could be fo
Chapter 33
The night over Skyvale sat heavy as a held breath, neon halos bleeding into the wet gutters, washing the city in a pale, electric sorrow. Charlie had been awake for hours; sleep had the same cowardice it always did around him now—an indulgence the world could not afford. He sat before a dozen encrypted servers that glowed dim and patient like the eyes of some sleeping beast, their fans whispering the only hymn in the concrete cellar. Each terminal displayed a lattice of code, packet traces, and routing paths; each decryption he pried open peeled back another layer of the city’s veneer—dead biotech shell companies reanimated as data routers, defunct military satellites repurposed as dark nodes, medical boards trading signatures like favors. He traced one signal after another in the blue light and watched them braid toward a single heart of shadow: a network that had no public face, a ghost cartel that sewed together science, capital, and force. On his screen the symbol blinked into bei
Chapter 32 — The Storm Returns
Charlie sealed himself in the underground lab, the concrete walls echoing with the hum of dying machines. Three days. No rest. No sunlight. Only the rhythmic pulse of data streams and the steady drip of condensation from rusted pipes. His eyes were bloodshot, his hands trembling—not from exhaustion, but from rage. The virus under his microscope wasn’t natural. It wasn’t random. It was an echo of his own creation.Each viral strand folded in patterns only he could recognize—his old algorithms, the self-adaptive healing code he once built to make medicine evolve alongside human biology. But here, the code didn’t heal. It was consumed. It rewrote DNA to obey a silent command embedded within the genome itself. It learned the body’s defenses, then turned them against the host.“They didn’t steal my work,” Charlie whispered, voice rough from silence. “They perfected my nightmare.”He zoomed deeper into the molecular structure, tracing the logic of its evolution. The base sequence pulsed lik
Chapter 31 — The Signature of Shadows
Weeks had passed since the memorial at Skydome. The world had moved on in its usual rhythm of gratitude and forgetfulness, polishing statues of heroes while quietly erasing the ones who refused to kneel to power. Charlie walked through the outskirts of the city, the air thick with rain and distant sirens. The skyline, once powered by AETHER’s pulse, now shimmered under human hands again—flawed, imperfect, alive. He should have felt peace. Instead, there was only the quiet ache of purpose unspent.He’d returned to the shadows where he’d always belonged. The old warehouse he turned into a clinic barely held together—peeling paint, flickering lights, and the faint hum of solar batteries scavenged from old drones. A fading sign at the entrance read: Free Treatment – No Questions Asked. Every day, wounded workers from the reconstruction sites came limping through his door—men with shattered bones, women coughing from chemical dust, children carrying infections too small for the new hospita
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