25 July 2037
United Nations General Assembly, London
The rebuilt hall was draped in the flags of nations that still stood and those that had collapsed only a week earlier. London had been chosen for the emergency session not for symbolism, but because it was one of the few cities still capable of hosting the leaders of the world.
The chamber was heavy with silence. Presidents, prime ministers, generals, and delegates sat stiffly in their seats, their faces pale with exhaustion. They were not the rulers of victorious nations anymore; they were the survivors of states torn down by betrayal and war.
The air shifted when General Kate Middleton entered the chamber. Her figure carried a weight of authority that could silence even the angriest of voices. She was dressed not in dress uniform but in her combat attire, a white officer's coat marked with the insignia of the Seven Nation Army. Her callsign—Sage—was etched on her nameplate. The eyes of the assembly followed her as she walked to the podium.
Kate paused, placing her hands on either side of the wooden stand, and looked out at the sea of delegates. Her voice, when it came, was calm but resonant, like steel that had been tempered in fire.
"Distinguished delegates, heads of state, and citizens of the world watching this broadcast," she began. "We gather here not in triumph, but in grief. The war is over, but the scars it leaves will mark us for generations."
A hush filled the room.
Kate continued, "The fall of governments across six continents, the surrender of the Federation of Nations Army, the collapse of entire political systems—these are not signs of victory. They are signs of how far we had fallen before this war even began. They are signs that corruption, lies, and betrayal had been allowed to rot the foundations of our societies."
Her words hung heavy, yet no one dared interrupt.
"As one of the seven generals of the Council that commands the Seven Nation Army, it is my duty to not only lead in war, but to speak truth in peace. And the truth is this: the SNA itself is not blameless."
The chamber stirred, whispers spreading like fire. Kate did not falter.
"Twenty-one years ago, under the shadow of growing tensions, a project was authorized in secret. It was called Project Spectre. Its purpose was to create a generation of super soldiers—children, taken young, trained to fight before they were old enough to understand what war truly meant. These children were molded into weapons, their humanity stripped away for the sake of military ambition. Out of hundreds who were forced into the program, only a fraction survived. Many were broken beyond repair. Some never escaped the nightmares we placed upon them."
The silence was now suffocating. Some delegates shifted uncomfortably in their seats; others lowered their heads in shame.
Kate's voice hardened. "The project was abandoned. Those directly responsible were punished within our ranks. But the truth of Project Spectre was hidden from the public. We told ourselves it was for stability. We told ourselves it was for the greater good. But in truth, it was for fear. Fear of accountability. Fear of facing the monstrous reflection of our own decisions."
She looked around the hall, her eyes sharp as glass. "Tatsuo Kuroshima, in his final act, unleashed that truth upon the world. It has already spread through every nation, every household. You all know now what we tried to bury. And so, as a representative of the SNA, I stand before you to take responsibility. No excuses. No deflections. Responsibility."
Her words echoed through the chamber like hammer strikes.
Kate let the silence linger, then continued with measured calm. "Project Spectre is the reason why trust in institutions crumbled so easily. It is the reason why citizens, when confronted with proof of corruption, no longer gave their leaders the benefit of doubt. We created an army that could defeat enemies, but we failed to uphold the values we swore to protect. And so the world burned."
A delegate from Brazil stood, his voice sharp with anger. "General Middleton, are you admitting that the SNA itself planted the seeds of this catastrophe?"
Kate turned her gaze on him, steady and unflinching. "Yes. And it would be cowardice to deny it. But understand this—SNA is not one nation, nor one government. It is a coalition of peoples who chose to resist tyranny. It has been corrupted at times, manipulated, yes. But it has also stood as the last line when all others fell. Today I admit our sins, because only by doing so can we rebuild the trust we destroyed."
Another delegate, from South Korea, asked, "And what will be done for the survivors of Project Spectre?"
Kate's voice softened, though it carried a solemn weight. "They will be honored, not hidden. Their suffering will no longer be erased from history. The Seven Nation Army commits to lifelong care for every living survivor, and remembrance for every life lost. Their names will be carved into memorials in every capital, so the world never forgets what blind ambition costs."
A murmur of approval swept through the chamber, though the air was still tense.
Kate leaned closer to the microphone, her tone sharpening once more. "And to the nations of the world, I say this: the war has ended, but if we learn nothing, then all who died will have died for nothing. We cannot rebuild governments on the same foundations of lies. We cannot pretend peace will last if corruption is allowed to fester again. This General Assembly must not only rebuild nations—it must rebuild the covenant between people and those who claim to lead them."
Her words resonated deeply. Delegates who had spent decades in politics now felt as though the weight of history pressed against their shoulders.
Kate stepped back slightly, her voice lowering but gaining a grave intensity. "The Seven Nation Army will remain, but not as a hidden hand of power. We will remain as guardians only, bound by the will of the nations we protect. And we will be transparent. Every operation, every mission, will be accountable to this Assembly. That is my pledge, and the pledge of the Generals' Council."
She let her eyes sweep across the hall one final time. "We cannot undo the mistakes of the past. But we can choose not to repeat them. The war is over. Now, the world must decide what peace will mean."
Kate stepped back from the podium. The silence that followed was not empty. It was heavy, charged, like the air before a storm. And then, slowly, the chamber filled with applause—not the roaring applause of triumph, but the measured, respectful applause of those who understood that truth had finally been spoken aloud.
26 July 2037
New Eden, SNA Central Command
The capital of the Seven Nation Army was buzzing with activity. Reports of reconstruction, ceasefire enforcement, and humanitarian aid moved across the screens like an endless tide. But on the 57th floor of the Academy tower, the air was quiet, almost reverent.
Sohel Chowdhury—Ghost—walked down the polished corridor, his boots echoing faintly against the marble floor. Soldiers and staff turned their heads as he passed, some saluting, others simply staring. Everyone knew his face now. The man who had carried the war to its bitter end.
He stopped outside the office of General Rahat Ahmed—Overlord—and knocked once.
"Enter," came the familiar voice.
Sohel pushed the door open. The room was spacious but plain. A wide desk, bookshelves filled with dusty manuals, and a map of the world pinned against the far wall. Behind the desk sat Rahat, wearing his uniform without the medals, sleeves rolled up, glasses perched on his nose as he scribbled on a report. His hair had turned more silver than black since Sohel had last seen him in person.
The old man looked up, and his stern face softened with a hint of warmth. "Sohel. About time you showed up."
Sohel closed the door behind him and smirked. "You called, old man."
Rahat chuckled under his breath. "Still disrespectful as ever." He motioned toward the chair opposite him. "Sit."
Sohel sat, resting his forearms on his thighs. He noticed the half-empty teacup on Rahat's desk, the faint aroma of cardamom filling the air. For a moment, it felt like he was back home, talking to an uncle rather than a general.
Rahat leaned back, studying Sohel carefully. "You've changed, Ghost. The boy who once hid behind his father's shadow… is now the man the world talks about in hushed tones."
Sohel didn't flinch at the words. He simply replied, "Change was never optional."
Rahat's lips tugged into the faintest smile. "No. It wasn't." He tapped his pen against the desk, then set it aside. "I didn't call you here for compliments. I called you here for… legacy."
Sohel tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. "Legacy?"
Rahat reached into a drawer and pulled out a sealed folder, marked with the insignia of the General's Council. He placed it on the desk, pushing it toward Sohel. "You won't open this now. You'll open it when the time comes. But you deserve to know what's inside."
Sohel raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
Rahat clasped his hands together. His voice took on the tone of a commander giving orders, but there was something personal beneath it. "Five out of seven members of the Generals' Council, myself included, have voted in favor of your future promotion. The Armed Forces Division in Dhaka has already given its approval. When I retire—ten years from now, maybe less—you, Sohel Chowdhury, will take my seat in the Council. You will be a Major General."
The words settled like a weight between them. The world outside carried on, unaware of the decision that would shape its future.
Sohel didn't blink. He didn't fumble for words. He simply leaned back in his chair and exhaled through his nose. "Major General, huh?"
"Yes."
"And the other two?"
"Snow Leopard and Swordfish abstained," Rahat replied matter-of-factly. "Not because they doubted you, but because they didn't see a need to vote on something inevitable."
Sohel smirked faintly. "Sounds like them."
Rahat's eyes softened again. "I knew your father, Sohel. We fought in the same mud, bled in the same trenches. He would have wanted this for you. Not for the rank. Not for the power. But because he knew you had the will to carry what others couldn't."
For the first time, Sohel's composure cracked just slightly. His jaw tightened, and his gaze drifted to the floor. "If he could see me now… I don't know if he'd be proud. Too much blood on my hands."
Rahat leaned forward, his voice sharp. "Don't ever say that. Blood is the cost of command. Pride comes not from clean hands, but from carrying the weight when no one else will. That's what makes a leader. That's why we chose you."
Sohel met his eyes again, the steel returning. "And this stays between us."
"For now," Rahat confirmed. "The Council will not announce it until I step down. Until then, you serve as Ghost. Nothing more, nothing less."
Silence lingered for a moment. The faint hum of the air conditioning filled the space.
Then Rahat's tone shifted, lighter but still deliberate. "There is one thing that will not remain secret." He opened another folder and slid a paper across the desk. "The British Crown has decided to knight all surviving members of Task Force Seven. Yourself included."
Sohel blinked, then let out a dry laugh. "You're joking."
"I don't joke."
"They want to knight me? A Bangladeshi soldier?"
Rahat chuckled. "You think knighthood is about nationality? It's about recognition. Mei Watanabe, De Luca, Annabelle Watson, and you. The four of you will stand before the Royal Family, and history will write your names in gold."
Sohel shook his head, still smirking. "Never thought I'd be called 'Sir Ghost.'"
"You'd better get used to it," Rahat said with a grin.
The two men shared a rare moment of quiet laughter. Then the gravity of reality settled back over them.
Rahat leaned forward again, his voice once more carrying the weight of authority. "Listen to me, Sohel. Everything you've done, everything you've lost—it has led to this moment. You will rebuild this world, piece by piece. And when I am gone, you will take my place among the seven who hold it together. That is your destiny, whether you accept it or not."
Sohel stood slowly, pushing the chair back. His posture was calm, his eyes sharp. "Then I'll carry it. But don't call it destiny. Call it duty."
Rahat rose as well. For a brief second, he placed a hand on Sohel's shoulder, the gesture more fatherly than formal. "Duty, then. But make it yours, Ghost. Not mine. Not your father's. Yours."
Sohel nodded once, then turned toward the door. He paused with his hand on the knob, glancing back over his shoulder. "You're still an old man, Rahat."
"And you're still a brat," Rahat shot back, a rare smile tugging at his lips.
Sohel opened the door and stepped out, leaving Rahat alone in the quiet office. The general stood in silence for a long while, staring at the world map on the wall. Then he whispered softly to himself, "The world is in your hands now, Sohel. Don't let it break you."
29 July 2037
Buckingham Palace, London
The palace shone with regal brilliance, its ancient stone façade lit by floodlights as if to remind the world that, despite the fires of war, some traditions endured. Inside the grand hall, the air was thick with reverence. Nobility, foreign dignitaries, and military officials filled the gilded chamber, their uniforms and dresses a patchwork of cultures bound together by the uneasy peace that followed the war's end.
At the center of the hall stood a raised dais, draped in deep crimson and gold. Upon it sat the throne of the British monarch. Beside the throne, the Royal Standard fluttered softly in the draft of the hall's open doors.
The room fell silent as the herald announced the guests of honor.
"Task Force Seven, heroes of the Seven Nation Army. Sergeant Tijiano Joaquin De Luca. Captain Mei Watanabe. Major Sohel Chowdhury. And Her Royal Highness, Princess Annabelle Josephina Watson."
The four walked in side by side. Their dress uniforms gleamed beneath the chandeliers: white tunics lined with blue, medals neatly pinned, the Task Force 7 emblem—a knight with twin blades—shining proudly on their sleeves. Their boots struck the marble floor in perfect rhythm.
But the hall's eyes inevitably fell upon Annabelle. For the first time, she walked not as a princess, but as a soldier standing shoulder to shoulder with comrades who had saved the world. Her sister, Crown Princess Isabelle Josephina Watson, watched from the front row with tears glistening in her eyes.
The King of the United Kingdom, dressed in his military finery, rose from the throne. His voice was solemn, carrying the gravity of centuries of tradition.
"Before us stand four warriors whose valor has altered the course of history. They carried the burden of a war not of their making, fought not for glory, but for peace. Today, Britain recognizes not only their deeds but their sacrifice. The world owes them a debt it cannot repay. But we shall honor them with the highest tradition of our realm."
A chamberlain approached, carrying the Sword of St. George. Its steel shimmered, reflecting light like fire. The King drew it with slow grace, holding it before him as he spoke.
"Step forward, Sergeant Tijiano Joaquin De Luca."
The Argentine-born soldier marched ahead, bowing his head and kneeling on one knee. The King lowered the blade gently to each shoulder.
"For bravery in battle, for devotion to duty, for courage unbroken—rise, Sir Tijiano Joaquin De Luca."
De Luca rose, his face stern yet humbled, and stepped aside.
"Step forward, Captain Mei Watanabe."
Mei walked forward, calm but dignified, her Japanese heritage reflected in the faint red trim of her uniform. She knelt, her eyes unwavering as the blade touched her shoulders.
"For unmatched courage and steadfast resolve, for the sacrifice of your own safety to shield others—rise, Dame Mei Watanabe."
She rose, bowing respectfully, then moved beside De Luca.
"Step forward, Major Sohel Chowdhury."
Sohel strode forward. His expression was calm, but his presence commanded silence. Kneeling, he bowed his head.
"For valor beyond measure, for carrying the weight of command when all others faltered, and for ensuring peace where there was only war—rise, Sir Sohel Chowdhury."
The sword lifted, and Sohel rose, eyes meeting the King's for a moment. It was brief, but it carried an unspoken message: respect between equals.
Finally, the King's voice softened as he said, "Step forward, Princess Annabelle Josephina Watson."
Annabelle approached, her every step echoing with the gravity of her dual identity: soldier and royal. She knelt, bowing her head beneath her father's sword.
"For loyalty to your comrades, for courage that shone brighter than your crown, and for proving that nobility lies not in blood, but in deeds—rise, Dame Annabelle Josephina Watson."
The hall erupted in applause as she stood, tears threatening to break through her composed expression. Isabelle rose from her seat, clapping with unrestrained pride. For a brief second, the two sisters locked eyes—Isabelle, the heir to the throne, and Annabelle, the warrior who had saved it.
The King sheathed the sword and stepped forward, his voice filling the hall.
"Today, we do not honor just warriors. We honor the unity of nations, the bond of comrades, and the sacrifice of the few for the many. Let these four names—Sir Tijiano De Luca, Dame Mei Watanabe, Sir Sohel Chowdhury, and Dame Annabelle Watson—be remembered for as long as Britain endures."
The hall roared with applause once more, the echoes filling the gilded ceiling. Cameras flashed, broadcasting the ceremony across the world. For the war-torn nations still reeling from collapse, it was a symbol of hope—that valor could still be recognized, and that heroes still walked among them.
As the ceremony concluded, the four of them stood together on the dais. De Luca remained stoic, his jaw set in pride. Mei allowed herself the faintest smile, her eyes softening as they glanced toward Sohel. Annabelle stood tall, her gaze flicking to Isabelle, who mouthed a single word: Proud. And Sohel—ever the calm shadow—stood silently, his thoughts unreadable, though the faintest glimmer in his eyes betrayed the weight of memory.
The Royal Anthem played as the King raised his hand, declaring the ceremony closed.
The world had named them knights. History would remember them as legends.
30 July 2037
Purbachal, Dhaka, Bangladesh
The Defender rolled quietly into the narrow lane, its tires crunching against the gravel. The air smelled of rain; puddles glistened beneath the glow of the streetlamps. At the end of the lane stood a two-storey house, painted white with a small garden out front where hibiscus and rose bushes swayed in the humid breeze. It was modern, simple, but alive with the warmth of home.
As the car stopped, the front door burst open and Sarah Chowdhury ran down the steps. "Brother!" she called, her voice carrying all the relief of a sister who had spent too many nights fearing the worst.
Sohel stepped out of the car, still in his SNA uniform, his cap tucked under his arm. Sarah threw her arms around him. For a moment, the hardened soldier melted. He hugged her back tightly, whispering, "I'm home, Sarah. I'm finally home."
Behind him, Mei stepped out, a little hesitant at first, but Sarah smiled at her warmly. "You don't need to stand there, Mei. You're family now." Mei blushed faintly, bowing her head politely before joining them.
From the other side, Luna climbed out of the car. The young woman adjusted the cast on her left arm, her eyes bright as she spotted Sarah. "Aunt Sarah!" she said, grinning as she rushed forward. Sarah hugged her carefully, mindful of the cast.
"You've grown so much," Sarah said, holding Luna at arm's length, as if she were a little girl again and not a battle-scarred soldier.
"I had to," Luna replied with a small smile. "War doesn't let you stay a child."
Annabelle stepped out last, in civilian clothes—something she rarely wore without ceremony. She took a breath of the heavy Dhaka air and smiled faintly. Sarah greeted her too, as though she were no different from the others, no less a sister than family.
Inside, the house smelled of fresh cooking—lentils, fish curry, and steaming rice. Sarah had been preparing since morning, knowing her brother would finally return. They all sat together around the table: Sohel at the head, Mei to his right, Sarah to his left, Luna and Annabelle across from them. For a brief moment, it wasn't Task Force 7. It wasn't soldiers, royals, or knights. It was simply a family sharing dinner in a quiet home.
The laughter came easily. Sarah teased Sohel about how gaunt he'd become. Luna bragged about how she'd still outrun her adoptive father in a race if not for her cast. Annabelle tried her best at Bangla, stumbling through greetings and earning chuckles from everyone at the table. Mei listened quietly, smiling, her eyes often drifting to Sohel with a softness that only he seemed to notice.
But when the meal ended and the night grew quieter, the mood shifted.
In the living room, Sohel stood by the window, looking out into the dark. The night air was still heavy, yet he felt a coldness in his chest. On the table beside him were two small picture frames Sarah had placed earlier: one of Mitali, smiling in her SNA uniform, and another of Jacob, the squadmate lost long ago. Their faces stared back at him like ghosts from a past he couldn't let go.
Sarah joined him, her hand resting gently on his arm. "You're thinking about them," she said softly.
Sohel nodded. "Mitali deserved more than fire and rubble. Jacob deserved more than to be forgotten." His voice was steady, but there was weight beneath it.
"They'll never be forgotten," Sarah said firmly. "Not while you live. Not while we remember."
Behind them, Luna spoke up from the couch. Her voice was quiet, but resolute. "They live in us. Every step we take forward… they walk with us."
Silence lingered after her words, each of them lost in their own memories of comrades and family torn away by war. Even Annabelle, usually so poised, bowed her head, her fingers twisting together in thought.
Mei moved closer to Sohel, her presence grounding him. "Ghost," she whispered, using his callsign but with a gentleness that stripped away its coldness. "You've carried enough weight for all of us. You don't have to carry it alone anymore."
Sohel looked at her, his expression unreadable at first. But then, slowly, he reached for her hand. She didn't flinch. Their fingers intertwined naturally, as if they had always been meant to fit.
Later that night, after Sarah had gone to bed and Luna had fallen asleep in front of the TV, Annabelle excused herself with a playful smirk and disappeared upstairs, leaving Sohel and Mei alone.
They stepped out into the garden, where the night air was cool after the rain. Fireflies flickered faintly between the hibiscus leaves. Sohel leaned against the railing, Mei standing close beside him.
"This house," Mei said softly, "it feels alive. It feels… safe. I can see why you never let go of it in your memories."
Sohel smiled faintly. "It's not the house. It's the people inside it." He looked at her, his gaze lingering. "And… it's you too."
Mei's breath caught for a moment. She looked down, her cheeks warming, then back up at him. The woman who had stood unflinching before death now looked vulnerable in the quiet of a garden.
She said, "But… I want to be more than that."
Sohel reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her face. His touch lingered. "You already are."
For a moment, the world was silent—no gunfire, no orders, no ghosts. Just two people standing in the garden of a quiet house in Dhaka, finding peace where once there was only war.
Sohel leaned down, and Mei closed the distance, their lips meeting in a kiss that was tender, unhurried, and full of promises unspoken.
When they finally parted, Mei rested her forehead against his chest, and Sohel wrapped his arms around her. Above them, the fireflies drifted like stars, their faint glow a quiet reminder that even in the darkest nights, light always found a way.