The Return of The Phantom General

Visiting Marcus Sterling

"We have taken care of everything, Mr. Sterling. No media will report on it. The official report is a gas explosion caused by an old pipe leak."

The voice on the phone line sounded nervous, breathing heavily as if speaking to an angry God. It was the voice of the Zurich Chief of Police.

On the top floor of a black glass skyscraper in the heart of the Bahnhofstrasse financial district, Marcus Sterling listened to the report while swiveling his chair to face the window. Down below, the city of Zurich looked like Lego toys he owned.

"Good," Marcus replied flatly. He puffed on a Cuban cigar that cost more than a semester's college tuition. "And what about my son? Is Julian still raving about ghosts?"

"Young Master Julian... is being sedated by a private doctor. He... he is still hysterical, Sir. He keeps screaming about black eyes and shadows eating people."

Marcus shook his head, refusing to believe what Julian had said about ghosts attacking him and his men.

Marcus snorted softly, extinguishing his cigar in a crystal ashtray. "Weak. The boy is too spoiled. He sees a little blood and goes crazy. Make sure he doesn't talk to anyone. And about the perpetrator... this Caleb guy?"

"We are tracking him, Sir. But... all CCTV footage around the cafe is corrupted."

"Find him. Locate him," Marcus ordered. "I don't care if he's an ex-soldier or a circus magician. Bring him before me. I want to skin his face and turn it into my car seat cover."

"Y-yes, Sir."

Click. The call ended.

Marcus stood up, straightening his suit. He felt safe. He was inside the Sterling Private Bank, the most secure financial fortress in Europe. This building was guarded by former special forces and the most advanced biometric security systems. Ghosts could not penetrate five-inch thick bulletproof glass.

At least, that was what he thought.

***

Thirty floors below, in the bank's magnificent main lobby.

The automatic revolving door whirred softly. Caleb stepped inside.

The atmosphere in the lobby was silent and intimidating. The white marble floor was polished like a mirror, giant Roman-style pillars stood tall, and the scent of money filled the air. The people passing by wore suits that could feed a village in Africa for a year.

Caleb looked like an ink stain on white paper. His shabby jacket, boots still caked with mud, and messy hair made him look like a vagrant who had walked into the wrong building.

He walked straight toward the reception desk, which was manned by a young woman with perfect makeup and a condescending gaze.

"Package delivery is through the back door, Sir," the receptionist said without lifting her face from her computer screen. Her tone was cold, automatic, and full of disdain. "And please clean your shoes before entering. This is imported flooring."

Caleb stopped right in front of the desk. He placed both palms on the surface.

"I am not a delivery man," said Caleb quietly.

The receptionist finally looked up. Her eyes scanned Caleb's appearance from top to bottom with disgust. "Listen, Mr. Hobo. This is a private bank. Our clients have a minimum balance of ten million Francs. Unless you have ten million in that pocket, you better leave before I call security to throw you out onto the street."

Caleb smiled faintly. "I didn't bring money. I came to make a withdrawal."

"A withdrawal?" the woman laughed cynically. "What withdrawal? We don't have spare change for beggars."

"A withdrawal of life," Caleb answered.

Caleb's fingers pressed down on the desk surface a little harder.

CRACK.

The sound of cracking made the receptionist's eyes go wide. She saw a hairline fracture appear beneath Caleb's palm. The crack spread rapidly like a spiderweb, splitting the solid black desk that was ten centimeters thick.

"What... what are you..."

CRASH!

The massive desk shattered into pieces, as if it had just been struck by an invisible giant axe. Computers, phones, and flower vases fell into a mess on the floor.

The receptionist screamed, jumping back from her chair, falling onto her backside with a face pale as a sheet. Dust billowed into the air.

"Call your boss," said Caleb, patting the dust from his hands. "Tell him the debt collector has arrived."

Emergency alarms blared. Red lights rotated in every corner of the lobby. Automatic steel doors sealed the exits.

"FREEZE! DON'T MOVE!"

From the side corridor, twelve security guards ran out. They were not ordinary security guards. They wore full tactical vests, carried assault rifles, and had the posture of trained killers. They formed a semicircle, surrounding Caleb.

"Hands on your head! Kneel! Now!" shouted the security captain, aiming a red laser at Caleb's head.

The wealthy people in the lobby screamed in panic, running to find cover behind the pillars.

Caleb did not raise his hands. Instead, he put both hands into his coat pockets. He looked at the guards with a bored expression.

"How much are you paid to die today?" asked Caleb.

"Shoot his legs!" ordered the captain.

However, before a single finger could pull a trigger, Caleb released his restraint.

He didn't use physical ghosts. He released his Aura of Fear. He allowed a tiny fraction of the energy from the 10,000 spirits bound to him to leak out into the room's atmosphere.

The room temperature dropped fifteen degrees in a single second. The lobby lights began to flicker wildly.

The guards suddenly stopped. Their faces changed. Terror.

In their eyes, Caleb was no longer a shabby man.

They saw a giant shadow behind Caleb. A shadow that reached the lobby ceiling, with thousands of hands reaching out to drag them to hell. They heard the screams of their children, the cries of their mothers, and the sound of their own deaths whispering in their ears.

"N-no... get away... get away from me!" one of the guards dropped his rifle. His legs went weak.

"Demon... there's a demon in his eyes!" shouted another guard.

One by one, the squad fell to their knees. Not because they were hit, but because their nervous systems collapsed under the unbearable weight of fear.

Their eyes rolled back until only the whites were visible. Their mouths foamed. Their bodies convulsed on the floor.

The security captain was the last one standing. He tried to hold his pistol with two violently shaking hands, tears streaming down his face without him realizing it.

"Who... are you..." stuttered the Captain, his pants soaked with urine.

Caleb walked past him as if he wasn't there.

As Caleb's shoulder brushed against the Captain's shoulder, the man instantly collapsed, fainting with his facial expression frozen in a silent scream.

Caleb stepped toward the private elevator in the center of the lobby. The elevator doors, which were supposed to be locked with a biometric code, suddenly opened by themselves, as if the computer system was too afraid to refuse Caleb.

He stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for floor 30.

***