CHAPTER 9: THE UNOFFICIAL TRAINING AND OFFICIAL VISIT.
TRAINING FOR SURVIVAL.
Blindfolded, Nyx had no idea where they were taking him, nor the slightest clue why the blindfold was necessary. All he could tell was that he was being transported to some undisclosed location. After what felt like an hour or two, the vehicle finally stopped. Still blindfolded, hands bound tightly behind his back, he was led into a building complex. He knew it was a large structure because every footstep echoed sharply off the walls.
The air shifted. From the low murmur of voices and the charged atmosphere, he could sense that people were already waiting. When they finally came to a halt, a few hard-looking men—clearly guns for hire—with rough voices greeted his escorts. Though Nyx could not see them, his instincts screamed danger; these men weren't amateurs. A moment later, someone forced him down onto a chair, and the blindfold was yanked away.
Bright light flooded his vision. As his eyes adjusted, Nyx saw a sprawling training hall filled with men sparring in groups, running drills, and handling weapons—the kind of preparation that preceded organized chaos.
His restraints were cut loose. Then a man stepped forward—older, muscular, with the aura of a retired soldier. His face was a roadmap of old battles, each scar another story. He scanned Nyx from head to toe with a disdainful grin, then turned to the escorts who had brought him in.
"Is this the best he could come up with?" the scarred man asked. "Or did you idiots deliberately leave out the details?"
One of the guards shoved Nyx forward. "The whole operation was his idea," he said coldly. "And the boss believes this ratbag can pull it off. Besides, the boss never fails once he sets his mind to something."
"All right, then," the scarred man said. "Looks like it's up to me to beat him into shape like a real champ."
He signaled to his men. They hauled Nyx across the hall into a sprawling training area filled with complex layouts and pillars stretching in every direction. They dragged him inside and flung him onto the cold floor. Still seething from the rough handling, Nyx heard heavy footsteps approaching—thud, thud—each step brimming with calm dominance.
When the figure stopped in front of him, Nyx lifted his head, and his heart skipped a beat. Standing over him was Captain Marvick—the same man who had once hunted him across the rooftops of Front Marina.
"Yo," Marvick greeted casually, smiling like they were old friends.
Fear surged through Nyx. He sprang to his feet and tried to bolt in the opposite direction, but another soldier's boot slammed into his side—thud! He hit the ground hard, gasping as pain rippled through his ribs, sprawling back at Marvick's feet. Marvick laughed softly as Nyx struggled to push himself up, then gave a playful little wave before reaching down to haul the gasping Nyx upright.
"Today, Roof Monkey," Marvick said, patting his shoulder and dusting him off, "we'll be engaging in a heavy military exercise. Today's lesson is the art of maneuvering with AMGs."
The words landed on Nyx like a judge pronouncing a final sentence. He could scarcely believe what he was seeing: a law-enforcement officer standing shoulder to shoulder with unlawful mercenaries. Marvick snapped his fingers at an aide, who brought forward an AMGs, Grade One Special—the kind normally reserved for high-ranking officials. In the Enforcer hierarchy, only commanders were legally permitted to use such equipment.
"Um… aren't those illegal for non-military personnel?" Nyx asked, his voice wavering.
Marvick didn't answer immediately. Instead, Nyx noticed a few familiar faces among the crowd—members of the squad that had chased him and Jayce in Front Marina. The pieces fit together. Enforcers and Royal Police working with mercenaries—this was no rogue operation. This was a deep-state political play.
The aide began equipping Nyx, strapping the heavy machinery to his waist and tightening the military-grade buckles. The weight overwhelmed him. He lost his balance and crashed backward onto an old table—crash! The table splintered under the AMGs's weight, breaking his fall. Nyx winced in pain as Marvick burst out laughing.
"With that little comic display," Marvick teased, "I can tell you've never stolen or sold military equipment on the black market."
Nyx frowned. "What makes you say that?" he asked, struggling to pick himself up.
Marvick smirked. "An expert in trading black-market military hardware would recognize his merchandise instantly—that was my first clue. Second, you fell like a freshly cut-down oak tree the moment you put the AMGs on. Any real merchant would have tested the goods before trying to sell them. You didn't. You're a rank amateur."
He clapped Nyx's back. "Long story short, Roof Monkey—"
"My name is Nyx!" he snapped. "Not Roof Monkey."
Marvick feigned a look of deep contemplation. "Ah, right. My mistake; correction noted. Roof Monkey Nyx."
"Oh my goodness, you look like you're about to shit yourself, boy!" Marvick laughed. The rest of the men joined in.
"AMGs Maneuvering 101 — Balance," Marvick announced, signaling to one of his soldiers. "That's where you're starting."
A soldier took up position among the training pillars and motioned for Nyx to approach. Struggling under the load, Nyx forced himself forward, determined not to lose what little pride he had left. Every step was a battle against gravity, but he kept moving. Marvick watched with a hint of genuine surprise at the boy's stubborn perseverance.
"You know," said the soldier standing between the training pillars, checking a stopwatch, "there's a famous proverb by Lao Tzu from the People's Republic of Dōngfāng—the same homeland as my grandparents: 'A journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step.' You'd better make yours count. Fail the timer, and we start over."
And so the grind began. Nyx ran laps, his muscles screaming under the oppressive weight of the AMGs as Marvick barked out increasingly sadistic drills. They were toying with him, certainly, but Nyx didn't break. He couldn't. Failure meant losing everything—and everyone—he loved. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, his body began to find its new center. The weight didn't get lighter, but Nyx grew stronger.
The grueling exercise was working.
THE BREACH FROM WITHIN.
Beneath the grand marble floors of the museum, something was stirring—quiet, hidden, and dangerous. Deep underground, a squad of heavily armed infiltrators tunneled beneath the building, their drills humming through concrete day and night for three relentless days. The operation unfolded with unnerving precision, guided by an insider who had slipped into the institution ahead of time. As one team broke through reinforced layers, another methodically set explosives along the new passageway.
High above them, in the museum's central surveillance room, their inside man had already subdued the original four guards and replaced them with impostors. That brought their total number of infiltrators to five—the first insider and four newly disguised operators. They maintained constant contact through a secure, low-frequency channel, trading clipped messages in static-laced bursts.
The comm line crackled:
Hiss! "This is B2. We've reached the primary waste unit and sanitation line. Requesting security deactivation, over!" Beep.
Hiss! "This is G1. Hold position. Surveillance takeover still in progress, over!" Beep.
Hiss! "Acknowledged. Standing by, over." Beep.
THE TROJAN HORSE.
The shapeshifter who had entered the museum two days before the breach had already memorized every routine—every shift change, every hallway pattern, every coffee delivery. He knew the exact moment when the cheerful young courier would arrive with the surveillance team's drinks.
Right on time, the boy came whistling down the corridor, balancing a tray. The shapeshifter stepped into his path, wearing the face of a familiar museum veteran.
"Let me give you a hand with those, kid," he said, his voice perfectly mimicking the man he'd replaced.
The boy, warm and unsuspecting, smiled. "Oh, thanks! Much appreciated."
As they walked toward the high-security monitoring room, the shapeshifter's thumb brushed the cup lids—just once, so quickly that no one could have seen the trace of sedative mix into their contents. He nudged open the heavy doors.
"Order's here, fellas," he announced brightly. "Two macchiatos and a latte—just like always."
The guards traded surprised looks. The man he impersonated was famously lazy, allergic to helping.
"You all right, man?" one asked, amused.
"Just bored," the shapeshifter replied with an easy shrug. "Figured I'd be useful for once."
They laughed. As he turned to leave, his fingers skimmed the table—lifting the master security key in one silent, fluid motion. He escorted the boy out, waited ten minutes, and returned to the soundless room.
Every guard was slumped unconscious across their consoles. With the stolen key, he locked the door behind him and assumed full control of the surveillance feeds and alarm grid.
The comm channel hissed again.
Hiss! "B2, come in. This is G1. Surveillance room secured, over!" Beep.
Hiss! "This is B2. We're in position, over!" Beep.
Hiss! "All parameters clear. Green light. Execute." Beep.
A disguised hatch opened quietly beneath the museum's west wing. One by one, shadows emerged from the tunnel, moving through the sublevels with surgical precision. Any wandering guard they encountered was swiftly subdued; those whose absence might attract attention were replaced by clone shapeshifters identical in face, form, and uniform.
Within minutes, the infiltrators commanded every security system. No alarms. No witnesses. The mission unfolded perfectly—silent, calculated, complete.
Two-thirds of the security force were now impostors. The charges were primed. One order, one spark, and the entire operation would blaze to life.
The museum—and everything within it—belonged to them.
MESSING WITH THE WRONG TEAM.
Far beyond the sprawling island nation of Luciana, across its scattered archipelago of smaller isles, the war continued reshaping the landscape of Symarria. Luciana's forces had once again reached a stalemate against the Imperial Army of Rey Santana. Unlike the smaller conflict Balogun had recently resolved—securing Captain Grimm's company—this war was far greater in scale and complexity.
Trenches now scarred the open terrain, stretching across a distance equal to 843 to 960 regulation soccer fields. For anyone familiar with Earth's geography, that was roughly the size of two entire Central Parks in New York. Once fertile meadows had become a desolate stretch of craters, mud, and choking smoke—a battlefield that had forgotten its own silence.
Inside Luciana's encampment, Balogun and his elite unit, Team Ember, discussed strategies that might finally turn the tide. Ideas flowed freely as each member offered their insight, until suddenly, a jolt of heightened awareness rippled through them.
Team Ember had sensed two distinct, powerful pneuma signatures—foreign presences. Intruders? Spies? They couldn't be sure. The uncertainty left the team tense.
The air thickened, heavy with anticipation. Like stones dropped into still water, the unseen visitors unsettled their focus. Balogun, with his disciplined demeanor, understood his team's abilities well—they could detect foreign energies, but pinpointing exact locations remained difficult.
Without betraying emotion, Balogun rose and approached Sasha. His eyes swept across his squad, carrying that silent, loaded message his team knew so well.
Calmly, he posed a question: "Has anyone heard the mountain goat joke?"
That was the coded signal. Every member understood instantly, straightened their posture, and masked their readiness with casual interest.
Balogun's voice turned playful. "The funny goat said," he began, scanning the empty air around the tent, "'Swap your fingers northward while the gate of hell opens in the southeast, raining insects of all kinds—'" He paused deliberately, then added, "'—and the cat waits for the goat's next move. Wanna see a magic trick?' said the goat."
He spread his palms wide. "Watch closely." Then—CLAP!
The sound cracked through the stillness. In that instant—quicker than a heartbeat—Sasha locked onto the first hidden intruder and swapped places with him. A moment earlier, she had stood before Balogun; now, she vanished, and in her place appeared a bewildered soldier.
Before the man could react, Balogun struck like lightning. His forearm slammed into the intruder's face with the force of a freight train—CRACK-BOOM!—driving him into the ground and carving a crater as though a meteor had fallen.
At that same moment, the air tore open. Two spatial portals appeared—one before Baker, another high above the second intruder. As that intruder tried to flee, a spectral cat wrapped itself around his leg, freezing him in place. Marian—the fifth member of Team Ember—whispered, "Got you," her fingers weaving precise sigils.
Owad fell freely into Baker's portal, which opened as an entrance, and burst out from the portal above as the exit. From the sky, he descended like a human comet, crashing into the immobilized soldier at blinding speed. The two smashed through a triple-layer scaffolding before slamming into the ground below, engulfed in a cloud of splinters, dust, and broken earth.
THE ART OF MIND POSSESSION
With both enemies captured, Marian's cats swarmed over them, restraining their bodies while knitting their wounds back together. As soon as the captives stirred, the cats cast a shimmering trance over their minds.
Marian—a gifted Gifter specializing in healing, psycho-mental transmission, and illusion techniques—ranked as the team's third-strongest member, right after Balogun and Owad.
"Captain," she called softly, "I think they're fully awake now."
Balogun hauled the soldiers into sitting positions and regarded them with a calm, steady gaze.
"I'd like to ask you a few questions," he said evenly, "but I doubt you'll answer them willingly."
He looked at Marian. "Do your thing, May."
She formed a snake-like zodiac hand seal. Instantly, her cats' eyes lit up with an eerie glow. From their shadows, a dark veil began to spread outward, slowly wrapping around one of the captives. But before it could engulf him, the soldier's body convulsed.
Right then, before Marian could complete the technique, the second soldier spoke—in a warped, disembodied voice that clearly wasn't his own.
"I'm impressed, Flagman," the voice said. "The Flagman blood truly runs through your veins. I knew this whole operation had your signature. My hunch was right. You're no patsy. That feather-brained major couldn't lead a herd of goats if his life depended on it."
Balogun narrowed his eyes. "Major Adams… is that you?"
"Like the smell of fresh spring daisies and cinnamon in your face, genius," the possessed soldier replied with a jagged laugh. "Who else were you expecting? Uncle Ruckus?"
"Not at all, sir," Balogun answered calmly. "And I'm afraid I don't know who Uncle Ruckus is."
The possessed soldier broke into a fit of harsh, dry laughter—a grotesque echo of Major Adams's amusement, still serving as his unwilling medium.
"There's nobody with that name," Adams said. "It's just an old barracks joke. And it's not 'Uncle Ruckus' but 'Uncle Ruckus, No Relation.' The 'Uncle' is a name, not a title."
Owad, both respectful and curious, interjected. "Forgive the interruption, sir, but won't this mind-possession technique put a heavy strain on the soldier's body?"
"That's very considerate of you," Adams replied through his host, "but he's not a weakling. He can handle it."
Balogun cleared his throat, steering the conversation back. "With all due respect, sir, why the theatrics? Why go through all this trouble just to speak with us? You could've simply summoned us to your office."
"You think I didn't consider that?" Adams shot back. "I wanted to see if your team was as sharp as the reports claimed. You didn't disappoint."
"Major Grimm is a fine officer," Balogun said, deflecting the compliment. "He's a capable leader. He'll be a real asset to your front. My team and I are just one small part of a much larger puzzle."
"Modesty doesn't suit you," Adams replied. "The universe didn't hand me a formidable team of Gifters like yours just to let the opportunity go to waste. We're turning the tide against the enemy, Balogun."
Owad's curiosity flared again. "Sir, I thought only Enforcers were the Gifters officially allowed in the military. Why do you have Gifters serving as soldiers who aren't Enforcers? Is that even legal?"
Before the Major could reply, Balogun stepped in. "It's not entirely illegal under Luciana's military laws." He turned to Owad. "It's a gray area — permissible under specific mandates. A commanding officer must have a royal permit to enlist Gifters outside the Enforcement Corps."
He faced the possessed soldier again. "I assume you have that permit, Major?"
Adams's tone softened to amusement. "Precisely. Rest easy — I do. And I'm well within my quota. You've met two of them already."
Baker spoke up, his voice tinged with concern. "I'm more worried about your host, sir. He looks like he's about to collapse."
"I'll release him soon," Adams assured. "He'll leave you a note with the coordinates to our rendezvous point."
"That would be wise," Baker murmured. "He's clearly at his limit."
A moment later, Adams withdrew from the soldier's mind. Air rushed back into the man's lungs like a released spring. He gasped and panted heavily, as if a great weight had been lifted. When he finally recovered, he wrote down the encrypted coordinates and handed them to Team Ember.
Then, with a soft poof, both captured soldiers vanished, leaving behind only a faint swirl of dust.
Balogun turned to his squad. He could see the unspoken questions in their eyes. The tent fell silent, thick with expectation.
Dragging a chair over, its legs scraping the floor, he sat down, crossed his arms, and propped his feet on the table.
"All right," he said dryly. "I know everyone's got questions. Don't hold back. Hands up if you've got one."
Every hand shot up at once.
Balogun groaned, rubbing his temples and smacked his lips in mild annoyance.. "Uh-huh. It's gonna be a long day."
BREAKFAST AT THE WHITEWOODS' RESIDENCE.
Somewhere in the quiet, leafy suburbs of Garden Heights, Upper Crownpoint, morning sunlight filtered through the linen curtains of the Whitewood household. The gentle aroma of coffee and freshly toasted bread filled the air as Mrs. Whitewood and her husband set down the plates and cutlery.
Her husband watched her as she laid down her plate, unable to miss her cheerful glow and radiance—a sharp contrast to the usual weary mask of a local politician.
"You seem as bright as a new penny this morning," her husband remarked, studying her radiant face. "The House must have finally given you a proper listening ear."
"A B-plus for guessing right, my love," Margaret replied with a satisfied smile. She placed the last fork neatly beside a plate and added, "I finally knocked Malik off his pedestal. I made a complete fool out of him in front of the sub-committee."
He smiled approvingly, his gaze fixed on her with admiration. "That's my girl, the councilwoman herself." He paused, then asked, "Let me guess—did he try that tired 'your husband's place of origin' gimmick again?"
"Of course he did. A leopard never changes its spots." She smirked. "But this time, I was more than ready for him. Taught his supporters a little Luciana history, too."
Chuckling softly, her husband moved toward the kitchen to fetch the remaining dishes, arranging them carefully on the table while continuing the conversation. This time weaving in a few pieces of advice.
"I know you're finally hitting those greedy and peremptory colleagues of yours where it hurts them most," he said. But if I may... I'd suggest you take it brick by brick. Don't pull the whole wall down on yourself."
"I'm not a toddler, dear," Margaret replied, a touch boastful. "I know exactly how to beat them at their own game."
He laughed softly. "And that's the problem, my love—trying to beat them at their game." Pouring orange juice into four glasses, he added, "Why participate as a mere player when you can reposition yourself as the game mastermind?" He set the pitcher down.
She leaned back with a confident air. "I already am a mastermind in their game of deception," she said with playful pride.
No, you aren't," he countered gently, sliding a glass toward her. "Those demons of councilors will crush and crumble your world like a building with a weak foundation." he said with a mild laugh.
"Then I'll make sure they never see a crack." she countered firmly.
"If it were up to me," he said, arranging the chairs, "I'd tell you to stop poking the bear. It's not worth it. You already know the majority of the House hates your guts."
Her expression soured. "Well… someone has to stand up against their corruption and tyranny," she replied, her voice laced with disdain, "especially since our king is such a wussy."
He sighed, half amused, half worried. "If I were you, dear, I'd restrain my tongue and thoughts against the king," he warned gently. "You know as well as I do that we no longer live under absolute monarchy. It's a constitutional monarchy now. The new Luciana laws have limited royal power considerably, and the people—through the House—decide and run most things in government."
Walking to the indoor bell, he rang it once—ding-ding!—to call the children, who were clearly lost in their own world upstairs. Doing who-knows-what.
"You're enjoying free speech today thanks to the House of Novachronos," he continued, returning to the conversation. "After all, it was the public—and a few prominent members—who elected Henry the Oak as king over Luciana."
Margaret suddenly burst into laughter. Tears welled in her eyes as the irony of his words struck her.
He frowned good-naturedly. "What's so hilarious?"
"Everything, my love," she said between laughs. "Did you know his bravery—his act of hardihood—would be labeled treason in today's society? The irony is delicious."
"Yes, I know," he teased. "I'm not Malik, my dear historian wife. I'm quite knowledgeable about Luciana history myself."
"Show-off," she murmured, chuckling. She settled into her chair, waiting for the children to come down as she putter-pattered her feet. "Who says I'm schooling you, anyway?"
"You should give the Royals some credit," he added, his tone turning strategic. "The Bill of Rights was Victoria's ancestral first gift to us commoners.
And speaking of the Crown—she's visiting Hell's Kitchen today."
He rang the bell again, more insistently this time—ding!—since the children were taking their time.
TEAM DADDY WON AGAIN.
"This is the perfect opportunity to bring out your old armor of journalism. Pick her brain; know her political views. Isn't that your stronghold as a former journalist?"
"I suppose I'll give it some consideration," she murmured.
"COMING!" two voices bellowed in unison from the floor above.
No sooner had the words left her mouth—immediately, like bulls in a stampede, a thunderous thud-thud-thud! Her two daughters came running down the stairs, shouting in excitement.
"Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!" they yelled in unison.
They shouted together, voices ringing with pure delight as they burst into the dining room like a pair of runaway bulls.
"Girls, girls—no running in the house!" their father called out in a mild but firm tone. "What's all this outburst of excitement about?"
"The princess is going to Hell's Kitchen!" they pressed on. "We want to see a live princess in person, Daddy!"
He put on a solemn face, sighing dramatically. As heleaned against the table, feigning exasperation."The crowd is going to be overwhelming, girls. Besides, I'm not a politician or a person of influence who can get us in. I'm just a civilian.
The guards would toss me out the second I tried." He raised his voice with theatrical flair, "I'm no POLITICIAN!"
Margaret recognized the mind game her husband was playing. Any moment now, the girls would turn their pleading eyes on her—especially with how he kept stressing the word "politician."
"Enough, dear," she said sharply. "I know what you're trying to do."
With exaggerated innocence, he asked, "Whatever do you mean, darling? I'm just making conversation. Not out of the ordinary."
Right on cue, one of the girls piped up, "Mom, aren't you a council worker?"
Her husband chimed in with a mocking, high-pitched mimicry, rephrased: "Yes, Mom, aren't you a council worker?"
Everyone turned their attention toward her. Her husband's guilt trip had finally caught her. The girls waited for their mother's answer. They were too young to understand politics or public office, unaware of her political affiliation or the extent of her influence. All they knew was that their mother worked for the government in some way. Finally, she yielded to the children's pressure. She looked at her husband, who was wearing a grin of pure victory.
"You finally got what you wanted, didn't you?" she said, giving him a pointed look. Then, turning to the girls, she added, "Alright, finish your breakfast while I make a few calls. I'll get us an invitation or a pass of some kind."
The girls leaped for joy like athletes who had just won gold medals.
"HOORAY!" they cheered in unison.
They were going to see a real princess—not on television, but in real life. Beaming with excitement, they began eating quickly, though their father gently reminded them to slow down to avoid choking. "Eat slowly, girls. Don't choke in your excitement."
It seemed Mrs. Margaret Whitewood, who had never been a great admirer of royals and nobles, was about to attend a political event after all. Questions would soon be flying, and Princess Victoria would need to be at her sharpest to face the formidable, award-winning journalist known as Mrs. Margaret Whitewood.
THE ADMIRAL'S ARRIVAL.
Luciana Falcon Naval Base, Oxford. Thirty-nine armored military trucks rolled in one after another, maintaining flawless convoy formation. The force, consisting of more than four hundred soldiers from two combined companies, was led by Admiral O'Tega—the Chief of the Defense Staff of Luciana's armed forces—accompanied by several small groups of commissioned officers.
News of the unexpected arrival spread like wildfire across the base. Within minutes, the fleet manager and his assistant learned that the highest-ranking officer in the entire military hierarchy had arrived—without any prior notice.
Without hesitation, they bolted from the administration block. This was no routine inspection or ceremonial visit. The Chief of the Defense Staff himself was on their grounds—the top figure in Luciana's military establishment.
The Falcon Naval Base, though steeped in history, was more a relic than a frontline facility. Once a proud logistics hub, its glory days had faded after the era of the legendary General Vidic. Since the current manager had assumed his post, this was the first time someone of such prominence had visited. He had never hosted an officer of this magnitude before.
Unlike Luciana's newer installations glittering with modern technology, Falcon lacked any hint of sophistication or glamour. High-ranking officers seldom passed through its gates, which made today's event extraordinary. The "number one" man of Luciana's armed forces was standing right there, on their soil.
While Admiral O'Tega addressed his assembled troops, briefing them on the forthcoming operations, a slightly chubby man came sprinting toward the group. His energy resembled that of an ardent fan chasing a beloved celebrity. Panting lightly, he came to a halt, straightened his posture, and called out with enthusiasm that echoed across the courtyard.
"Greetings, Admiral! It's a great honor to have you here, sir!" he exclaimed, his face beaming with unabashed delight.
The admiral, noticing the genuine excitement etched on the manager's features, responded graciously. He extended his hand toward him and said calmly, "A pleasure to meet you."
For a brief moment, the manager froze in disbelief. The Chief of the Defense Staff—the most powerful man in Luciana's military—was offering him a handshake. Quickly regaining himself, he reached forward with both hands, clasping the admiral's firmly. His expression radiated joy and reverence, and as he bowed his head slightly, the gesture carried the weight of one paying respect to a living legend.
Just as the handshake ended, Admiral O'Tega spoke again. "I've heard excellent reports about the work you and your transportation officer have been doing here. Would you care to take a photograph together?"
Like the bright burst of New Year's fireworks, the manager's mind exploded with euphoria; excitement shone from his eyes. Right on time, the transportation officer appeared as soon as the news reached him, running breathless from the sudden summons.
The base, now buzzing with life, felt an atmosphere it had not experienced in years. It was primarily used for logistics and the transport of vehicles and equipment—not for moving troops since the Battle of Blood Union. This was the same base whose fleets had fought alongside General Vidic. The current manager's own father had served as fleet manager during that historic campaign.
"My late father served as fleet manager during your glorious days," the manager said, his excitement growing and pride swelling. "It's an honor to serve you too in this time and era."
"The honor is mine," the admiral replied.
A photographer soon arrived, positioning the group for a photo—O'Tega at the center and main focus, the manager and his team beside him. After the pictures were taken, the manager personally guided Admiral O'Tega on a tour of the base, showing him every relevant facility and operation.
The admiral walked with a nostalgic gait; the last time he had set foot here, he was a young captain in his late thirties.
"It's been a long time since my last visit here," O'Tega remarked. "Back then, I was just a young captain in my thirties."
As they walked, the manager could not contain his pride. "My late father would be so proud to know I served the greatest soldier who fought alongside the late General Vidic."
The admiral glanced at him curiously. "Your late father sailed alongside Vidic?"
THE FLEET MANAGER'S WISH COME TRUE.
"Yes, sir. He oversaw the fleet that fought in the Battle of Blood Union," the manager answered, his tone softening. And his voice suddenly grew quieter as it suddenly dropped. "Unfortunately, he died alongside the General, his army, and many others. That was a red-letter day for Luciana as a country."
"Your father was a great man," O'Tega said solemnly. "His name will be remembered and inscribed on the Wall of Honors."
The manager hesitated, then ventured a gentle question. "Pardon my boldness, sir… do you still miss him? I mean, General Vidic—your friend?"
"Every single day." The admiral patted the manager's shoulder. "I, the entire armed forces, and Luciana as a whole miss him dearly." Tears rolled down his cheeks.
Behind him, as if on a silent cue, the rank of soldiers removed their hats, pressing them against their chests and bowing their heads in a synchronized display of mourning.
—a sign of respect to honor the fallen great general, who had been Admiral O'Tega's comrade.
Panic seized the manager. "Oh no—no, no, no!" the manager exclaimed, horrified. "Please forgive me, sir. I didn't mean to trigger those painful memories and dark days." As he apologizes.
O'Tega didn't pull away. Instead, he draped an arm across the manager's shoulder, easing the man's distress. "Don't you worry about it. I'm glad you brought it up. We must always remember the cause of our struggles, our fight, and our history."
"Are you sure, sir?" the manager asked, still anxious.
"I'm positive," O'Tega replied with quiet conviction. "Luciana never forgets its fallen heroes." He paused, then continued in a more practical tone as he returned to the business of the day, "Now, I need you to arrange the best possible transport for me and my crew."
The manager snapped back into professional mode, his chest puffing out. "Of course, sir! Please, fill me in on the details. We have the best service in the country ready to serve you."
Admiral O'Tega nodded and began providing the manager with the precise requirements for his company, explaining the scale and nature of the movement so the right arrangements could be made. The once-forgotten naval base—echoing with renewed pride—seemed to awaken from its long, quiet slumber.
