The Return of The Phantom General

The Uninvited Guests

Meanwhile, on the other side of Zurich, in a luxurious Gothic-style Mansion atop an elite hill.

Julian Sterling sat trembling on his leather sofa. A glass of 50-year-old Scotch in his hand spilled over due to the violent tremors in his fingers. He had changed his pants, but the sharp smell of urine from the earlier incident seemed to linger in his nose.

"Demon... he is a demon..." Julian muttered repeatedly. His eyes darted wildly to every corner of the dark room, fearing a moving shadow.

He saw it. He saw the thousands of corpses. It wasn't an ordinary hallucination. It was a trauma imprinted directly onto his soul.

"Sir? Are you alright?" Boris, the surviving bodyguard, stood at the door with a pale face.

"Close the door! Lock all the windows! Turn on all the lights!" Julian snapped hysterically. He threw his crystal glass against the wall, shattering it into pieces. "Don't let there be any shadows! He comes from the shadows!"

Julian reached into his suit pocket, grabbing his phone. He dialed a number that should never be called unless in an emergency. The number connected directly to a secret server in Moscow.

"Yes?" a heavy voice with a thick Russian accent was heard on the other end.

"Viktor... it's me, Julian," Julian's voice choked. "I need The Cleaners. Now. Tonight."

"Mr. Sterling," the voice on the other end chuckled softly. "Our services are expensive. And we are busy dealing with a diplomat in Geneva. Is this urgent?"

"Five times the price!" Julian screamed. "I'll pay five times the usual rate! Bring your best team. Bring heavy weapons. Bring a rocket launcher if necessary! I don't care!"

Silence for a moment on the other end. The music stopped. "Who is the target? A President? A General?"

"No," hissed Julian, his eyes burning with hatred and fear. "His name is Caleb Thorne. He's just... he's just a trash ex-soldier. But he's strange. He... he has dangerous magic tricks."

"Ex-soldier? Boring," the voice scoffed. "Alright. Since you are your father's loyal customer, we'll take it. Where is he?"

"Outskirts of the city. Slum district. I'll send the full address," Julian gripped his phone tightly until the screen cracked.

"Consider it done. We will make it look like a gas leak. There won't be a body left to bury."

"No!" Julian stood up, his breath ragged. "Don't just kill him. I want his head. Bring his head to me. I want to make sure those damn eyes are closed forever!"

"As you wish. Dasvidaniya."

Click. The call ended.

Julian dropped back onto the sofa. He laughed, his laughter sounding insane in the oversized room.

"You can have ghosts, Caleb," Julian whispered to the darkness. "But let's see if your ghosts can stop a .50 caliber bullet from Russia."

Outside the mansion window, the snowstorm grew heavier. But in the distance, five black vans without license plates began to move through the night, carrying grim reapers who never failed in their mission.

Tonight, Zurich would bleed.

***

"We're closing in five minutes, Monsieur. The storm outside is getting worse."

The old waiter's voice trembled slightly as he placed the cup on the table. Steam rose from the pitch-black coffee, the only source of warmth in the corner of Cafe Odette, an old coffee shop in the Niederdorf area, Zurich Old Town.

Caleb didn't look at the waiter, his eyes fixed on the black liquid in the cup.

"Leave the door unlocked for a little longer, Uncle," Caleb replied quietly. "I'm waiting for a friend."

"A friend? At this hour?" The waiter wiped his wet hands on his apron, his eyes glancing at the wall clock showing 11 PM. "Alright. But only for a moment. My wife will kill me if I come home late."

Caleb sipped his coffee. Bitter. Without sugar. A taste that reminded him of long nights in military isolation cells. "Thank you."

Ding-a-ling.

The small bell above the entrance rang. Bone-chilling cold wind rushed in, making the fire in the corner fireplace dance wildly.

Not one person entered. But five.

They wore thick coats, wet with snow. Their footsteps were heavy, yet strangely silent. No voices, no laughter.

The old waiter rushed over, a polite smile plastered on his face. "Sorry, gentlemen and madam. We are already clo—"

"Get out."

That one word was spoken by the man in front, a giant with a heavily scarred face and a thick Slavic accent. He didn't shout, but his tone froze the old waiter's blood.

"B-but..."

The man pressed the barrel of a silenced pistol against the waiter's forehead. "I said get out. through the back door. Run, and don't look back if you want to live."

The waiter went pale. He looked at Caleb briefly with an apologetic and fearful gaze, then dropped his tray and ran hurriedly towards the kitchen.

Click.

The front door was locked. The window curtains were drawn. The "CLOSED" sign was flipped.

Now, there were only the six of them. Soft jazz music was still playing.

Caleb didn't move. He didn't even turn his head. He lifted his cup again, blowing the steam slowly.

"The coffee here is good," Caleb said, breaking the deadly silence. "Too bad you chased away the barista."

"Caleb Thorne," a woman's voice was heard. Smooth, husky, and dangerous.

From behind the Slavic giant's back, a woman stepped forward. She wore a blood-red coat that stood out amidst the black of her colleagues. Her blonde hair was cut in a short bob, her lips painted bright red. She was beautiful.

The woman, known in the underworld as The Viper, walked towards Caleb's table. Her hips swayed, deliberately showing off her curves wrapped in tight leather beneath the coat she now unbuttoned.

The four other male assassins spread out, blocking all escape routes. Their weapons aimed at Caleb's head from various angles.

"May I sit?" asked The Viper, smiling sweetly.

"The chair is empty," Caleb answered without looking at her.

The woman chuckled, she walked around the table, stood right next to Caleb, then boldly sat on the man's lap.

Caleb didn't resist. He kept holding his coffee cup, as if the woman on his lap was as light as a feather.

"You're not trembling," whispered The Viper, bringing her face close to Caleb's ear. Her slender fingers, with long red nails, traced Caleb's jaw, down to his neck, then played with his shirt collar. "Usually, our targets have pissed themselves by the time Dimitri locks the door."

"I peed before coming here," Caleb answered flatly.

The Viper chuckled, her warm breath brushing Caleb's ear. "You're funny. I like funny men. Too bad Julian Sterling paid us a fortune to bring him your head."

"How much?" asked Caleb.

"Enough to buy a small island," the woman shifted her body, deliberately pressing her chest against Caleb's arm, creating an intimate friction that was intoxicating yet deadly.

The Viper's right hand moved slowly, slipping under her leather jacket. In the blink of an eye, a curved, razor-sharp Karambit knife was pressed against Caleb's neck.

"What a shame..." sighed The Viper, looking into Caleb's eyes from a very close distance, their faces only inches apart. "This handsome face has to be ruined. Your skin is nice, a little rough, just my type. If we met in a regular bar, maybe I'd take you to a hotel, not to hell."

The four other assassins began to get restless. Dimitri, the giant leader, growled. "Enough playing around, Natasha. Kill him. We have another target."

"Patience, stupid bear," snapped The Viper without turning, her eyes locked on Caleb's. "I want to see the fear in his eyes first. Hey, Handsome... why aren't you scared? This knife has cut a hundred throats. It only feels like an ant bite, then cold, then dark."

Caleb placed his coffee cup on the table slowly.

He finally turned, staring directly into The Viper's blue irises.

"You're wrong," said Caleb. His voice changed. Deeper. Darker.

"Wrong about what?" The Viper pressed the knife a little deeper. A drop of fresh red blood appeared on Caleb's neck, trickling down to wet his shirt collar. "You're cornered. Five against one. You have no weapon. You are prey, we are hunters."

Caleb's hand moved. Fast. Too fast for human eyes.

He didn't deflect the knife. Instead, Caleb's hand gripped The Viper's waist with bone-crushing strength, holding her firmly on his lap.

"I am not the prey," Caleb whispered.

And at that moment, The Viper saw it.

Caleb's pupils dilated, swallowing the white of his eyes until his entire eyeballs became pitch black without bottom.

The temperature inside the cafe dropped instantly. Frost spread rapidly across the window glass. The fire in the fireplace went out immediately.

Shadows in the corners of the room began to writhe, detach from the walls, and creep across the floor toward their table.

"W-what..." the seductive smile on The Viper's face vanished, replaced by horror. She tried to stab her knife, but her hand was stiff. She couldn't move. She was paralyzed on this monster's lap.

"You are not hunters," Caleb continued, his voice now sounding like a choir of thousands of dead people. "You are food delivered straight to my plate."

Dimitri shouted from behind. "SHOOT HIM! SHOOT!"

Four triggers were pulled simultaneously.

CRASH!!

It wasn't the sound of gunshots that was heard, but the sound of every light bulb in the cafe exploding at once.

Darkness.

In that darkness, the sound of hundreds of creatures hissing was heard, and the sound of The Viper screaming, stifled right in Caleb's ear.

"Welcome to the dinner banquet," Caleb whispered in the dark.