The Phantom General:Return of the Ex-Convict

The God of War Awakens

Luke stepped back from the rusted fire escape and silently closed the window.

He looked at the thin mattress on the floor. Sarah was curled protectively around Zoe, both sleeping deeply under the heavy warmth of his military coat. For a moment, Luke's eyes softened. He walked over and gently pulled the collar higher around his wife's neck.

Then he turned toward the door.

The warmth vanished from his eyes, replaced by cold, suffocating darkness. He wore nothing but a faded grey shirt, but he didn't feel the freezing dampness. The God of War only felt the familiar chill of coming violence.

He slipped out of Apartment 6B, making sure the rusted lock clicked softly behind him.

Luke stood at the top of the narrow concrete stairs. Six floors down, he heard the faint squeak of boots and the metallic scrape of machetes against railings.

Viper's men were coming up.

Luke didn't wait. He didn't want blood smell reaching the sixth floor.

He descended like a ghost. No footsteps. No breathing.

On the third-floor landing, the first wave crept upward. Ten men packed the narrow corridor, holding suppressed pistols and iron pipes.

"Check the doors," one whispered. "Viper said he's on the sixth—"

He never finished.

Luke dropped from the shadows above, landing behind him.

CRACK.

Luke clamped his hands around the man's head and twisted. The snap was sharp but muffled. Before the body hit the floor, Luke caught it and lowered it silently.

The other nine turned, eyes widening in the flickering light.

Standing among them was the beggar. Unarmed. No coat. Just a dead stare.

"It's him!" a thug hissed, raising his pipe. "Kill—"

"Shh," Luke whispered, pressing a finger to his lips. "My daughter's sleeping."

Luke moved.

He didn't use flashy moves. He used brutal, efficient techniques from the bloodiest battlefields on earth.

He stepped inside a pipe swing and drove a palm up into a jaw. The man's mandible shattered, and he hit the wall unconscious.

A machete came at him. Luke sidestepped, caught the wrist, and snapped it. As the man opened his mouth to scream, Luke drove a knee into his gut, silencing him.

Thud. Crunch. Thud.

It was a massacre. The narrow stairwell was their death trap, not his. They couldn't aim without hitting each other.

In exactly twelve seconds, the third-floor landing held ten broken, bleeding bodies.

Luke wiped a drop of blood from his knuckles and kept walking down.

On the ground floor, Viper leaned against the peeling lobby wallpaper, playing with a combat knife. He waited for his men to drag the crying woman and bleeding beggar down.

Suddenly, a body tumbled down the last flight and landed at Viper's boots.

Viper frowned. One of his elite killers. Arms broken in three places. Jaw dislocated.

"What the hell?" Viper barked, drawing his gun. He looked up.

Thud. Thud. Thud.

More bodies rained down. Men tossed like broken dolls. Viper's remaining thirty men backed away in terror, aiming at the shadows.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Luke emerged from the darkness. His grey shirt was splattered with blood, but none was his. He wasn't even breathing hard. He looked bored.

"Shoot him!" Viper roared, his smirk gone. "Shoot him now!"

Thirty men pulled their triggers.

But Luke wasn't there.

He moved with impossible speed, closing the distance in a split second. He grabbed the nearest thug's gun barrel and ripped it from his hands with a violent twist.

Luke didn't fire. Too loud.

He used the steel pistol as a bludgeon. He moved through the crowd like a reaper through wheat. Kneecaps shattered. Ribs caved. Skulls cracked against concrete.

Absolute, one-sided slaughter.

Viper watched in frozen horror as his fifty-man syndicate — the most feared gang in the city — was destroyed by one man in less than three minutes.

Luke dropped the ruined pistol. Forty-nine men lay groaning, bleeding, or unconscious on the floor.

Only Viper stood. His hands shook so badly he dropped his gun.

Viper's legs gave out. He fell to his knees, wetting himself on the cold floor.

"P-Please," Viper whimpered, tears streaming down his scarred face. "I... I didn't know... Mr. Vance paid me... a hundred million..."

Luke grabbed Viper by the throat and lifted the massive, tattooed man a foot off the floor with one hand.

Viper choked, legs kicking desperately.

"You can keep the money," Luke whispered, his dark eyes staring into Viper's terrified soul. "But you're delivering a message for me."

Luke leaned closer.

"Tell Arthur Vance to wash his neck. I'm coming for him."

Luke tossed Viper out the shattered front doors, sending him crashing into the muddy street. Viper scrambled up and sprinted into the rainy night, screaming in terror.

Luke watched him go. He adjusted his collar, stepped over the pile of bodies, and walked outside.

He stopped at the first open store on the block. He bought groceries, a cheap bouquet of street flowers, and a fresh white shirt. He changed in the back, stuffing the bloody shirt into a bin.

Then he walked back to Apartment 6B.

---

8:00 AM.

Sarah slowly opened her eyes.

She was incredibly warm. She blinked, realizing she was still wrapped in Luke's heavy coat. But what truly woke her was a smell she hadn't experienced in five years.

Sizzling bacon. Buttered toast. Fresh coffee.

Sarah sat up in panic. She looked toward the tiny, rusted kitchen.

Luke stood there in a clean white shirt, expertly flipping an omelet in a cheap pan. The apartment was still a dump, but the rusted bucket was empty, the floor swept, and a small bouquet of cheap flowers sat in a glass on the rickety table.

"Morning," Luke smiled gently, sliding the omelet onto a chipped plate. "I went out for groceries. Zoe's medicine works best with a full stomach."

Sarah was stunned. She rubbed her eyes. Was this real? The man before her looked like the perfect husband she'd dreamed of for five years.

"Luke..." Sarah whispered, eyes watering. "Where did you get the money for all this?"

"I told you," Luke said smoothly, setting the plates down. "Helena Frost owed me a favor. Her people dropped off a severance package this morning to clear the debt."

Before Sarah could ask how much a billionaire's severance package was, a sharp, polite knock echoed on the door.

Sarah froze. The Vance family? The Quinns?

Luke calmly wiped his hands and opened the door.

Standing in the moldy hallway was a man in an immaculate, custom suit, flanked by two heavily armed private guards.

The man took off his designer sunglasses and bowed deeply, holding out a velvet box. Inside rested a single, gleaming gold key.

"Mr. Luke?" the man asked, his voice trembling with respect. "I'm the head real estate broker for the Frost Group. I apologize for the delay, sir. The keys to the five-hundred-million-dollar Dragon Emperor Villa are ready for you."