A man in a dark green uniform, decorated with medallions, sat alone in his office. His brown hair was brushed back, his weary brown eyes heavy with bags, and the stubble lining his jaw only added to the air of exhaustion that clung to him.
He sighed.
"Why now, for fuck's sake…" he muttered, rubbing his temple.
The paper in his hand was thick, dense with information he'd hoped not to revisit. At least, not so soon.
"I hope he agrees…"
A knock interrupted his thoughts. He quickly sat upright and brushed his hair back again. Clearing his throat, he coughed loud enough for whoever was outside to hear.
"Come in," he called, his voice suddenly composed.
The door opened.
In stepped a man with closely cropped grey hair and a matching dark green uniform. His cap was tucked under one arm, and medals adorned his chest—far more than the man behind the desk. A single scar marked his right cheek, just below his blue eyes.
He closed the door behind him and saluted. "Supreme Commander Ethan Owens. General Oswell Kinsler, reporting."
"Stop it, old man," Ethan said with a faint smile. "It's just us. No need for formalities."
Oswell chuckled, easing into the chair opposite him. "So? What's this about, Ethan?"
Ethan placed a stack of papers on the desk with a solid thud. Oswell's gaze dropped to the top sheet, and his brow furrowed.
"This is...?" he asked, eyes lifting back to Ethan.
Ethan leaned back in his chair and exhaled. "His Majesty has ordered me to form a new organization—with authority comparable to an Overlord. This man will lead it."
Oswell's eyes narrowed. "That kind of power... You understand what you're saying, right? Only His Majesty would be beyond their reach."
"I do," Ethan replied. "And their sole purpose is to eliminate threats. External and internal."
Oswell's eyes drifted back to the paper. Though there was no picture and only a name, a face came to mind—black hair, red eyes. Cold.
"This is because of the intel we received recently, isn't it?"
"Yes. His Majesty and the High Council are concerned about the growing ties between Selvakan and Aerid. And... certain pests within the kingdom."
Oswell sighed, as though Ethan's weight had shifted to his shoulders. "So it's come to this, huh…" His eyes lingered on the file. Reports of impossible missions marked 'completed.' Achievements that, to him, bordered on divine intervention.
"Colonel Luther Grim…" he murmured. "I thought he was retired."
"He is," Ethan said, almost too quickly. "But His Majesty wants the best. And I have to deliver."
Oswell looked up. "And you want me to be the one to deliver the news to him?"
Ethan nodded, standing. "You have to persuade him."
"And if he refuses?"
Ethan met his gaze. "His Majesty asks for the best."
Oswell frowned. "Ethan, you know Luther Grim. He doesn't care about glory. He doesn't care about politics."
"I know," Ethan said, his voice softer now. "But please. Just try. For the kingdom."
There was a long pause before Oswell rose from his chair and took the file.
"Fine," he muttered. "Just... be ready to plan my funeral."
Ethan grinned. "Don't worry. I'll make sure it's a grand one."
— — —
Stepping out of the Supreme Command building, Oswell winced as the harsh sun greeted him, its glare piercing through the sky. He squinted and quickly adjusted his cap.
A uniformed soldier standing beside a sleek black car straightened up and saluted.
"General Kinsler, sir. All done inside? Your vehicle is ready."
Oswell gave a curt nod and slid into the backseat. The soldier took the front passenger seat while the driver, already waiting behind the wheel, glanced back and offered a sharp salute.
"General. Destination, sir?"
"Head to the train station, Karl. We're heading north," Oswell ordered, settling into his seat.
The man in the passenger seat turned his head back, eyes wide.
"North, sir? If I may ask... why?"
Oswell offered a tired but sly smile.
"We're meeting a very special man, Reginald. Be on your best behavior, alright?"
The engine came alive with a low roar, and the car eased onto the road toward Emial Station, the capital's military train station.
Reginald let out a low whistle, tapping a rhythmic tune against the door as he occasionally glanced up at the conversation mirror.
Noticing the repeated looks, Oswell cleared his throat.
"What is it, Reginald?"
"Can you at least tell me who we're meeting?" Reginald asked, a grin spreading across his face. "You've got me curious now."
Karl scoffed without looking back.
"You're twenty-four and still act like a teenager. Grow up."
Reginald snapped his head toward him.
"Hey! Just because you're in your mid-thirties doesn't mean you get to lecture me like some grumpy old man."
Oswell couldn't help but chuckle. The usual bickering between his subordinates was already in full swing.
"Alright, enough," he said, waving a hand as he leaned back into his seat. "We're meeting Colonel Luther Grim."
Silence fell over the car.
Both men straightened in their seats, shoulders tense, eyes wide.
"Wait—that Colonel Grim?" they blurted out in unison.
Reginald turned fully in his seat, his face a mixture of awe and disbelief.
"You mean the Reaper? The Ghost? The Red-Eyed Soldier?"
Oswell nodded, unsurprised by their reaction.
"Yes. That Luther Grim."
Karl blinked, still trying to process it.
"But… wasn't he supposed to be gone? I heard he disappeared after the war."
"He did," Oswell replied. "But His Majesty has ordered the creation of a new organization—something with real power. It's meant to handle both foreign threats from Selvakan and Aerid… and internal ones, too."
Reginald let out a low breath, turning back to the window.
"So... Colonel Grim's going to be the leader, huh? Makes sense. The Reaper himself."
Oswell nodded again, more slowly this time.
"Yes. That's the idea. Assuming he agrees—or at the very least, doesn't shoot us for disturbing his retirement."
That final thought hung in the air like a shadow. The idea of being eliminated without even seeing it coming sent a chill down the car. For a moment, none of them said a word.
The rest of the ride to Emial Station passed in uneasy silence.
Inside the station, Oswell approached the military checkpoint. A young officer at the desk stood upright, his posture stiff as a board.
"Papers, sir?" the officer asked, already reaching forward.
Then his eyes caught Oswell's face. The officer's face drained of color.
"A-Apologies, General Kinsler. No need for ID—your carriage is prepared. Carriage 01, Room 00," he stammered, stepping back with a salute.
"No worries, young soldier," Oswell replied with a small smile, waving as he passed.
The room was clean and private, with polished wood panels and leather seating. Oswell entered first, settling into the padded seat with a quiet groan of relief. Karl and Reginald followed, placing their briefcases onto the overhead rack.
"Karl, put this in mine," Oswell said, handing over a thick stack of papers.
Karl took them without a word and tucked them inside Oswell's briefcase.
"I'll sleep for a bit," Oswell murmured, closing his eyes. "Wake me when we reach Norick."
The train jolted gently as it began to move. Outside, the city blurred into the countryside.
Karl and Reginald exchanged a glance and shrugged. With nothing else to do, they passed the time—Reginald flicking cards across the table while Karl opened a novel, his brow furrowing in focus.
Sleep took Oswell quickly.
Darkness settled behind his eyes—until he opened them again.
He stood… not in the train, but in a vast, empty space. A dim green haze clung to the air.
Ahead, a man stood with his back turned. His shoulders were broad, uniform dark green. Raven-black hair.
Red eyes met Oswell's.
A young face. Pale. Cold. Impossibly still.
The Reaper.
Oswell's breath caught. His lungs refused to move.
Luther stepped forward.
"Stop it," he said. Voice hollow. Detached. Ice in his tone.
Oswell's body tensed. A bead of sweat slid down his face.
"Wh-What is it, Colonel Luther?" he asked, voice cracking.
Luther lunged.
Oswell gasped as the hand closed around his throat—unrelenting, iron-strong. His feet scraped backward, his hands clawing at the arm that held him. It didn't budge.
"W…Why a—are you…doing…this…!" he wheezed.
"You shouldn't have disturbed my peace… General Oswell," Luther said flatly.
Snap!
Oswell jolted awake, sucking in air like a drowning man. His chest heaved, heart pounding against his ribs.
Across from him, Reginald and Karl slept soundly. The world was real again—train lights, soft engine hum, faint rattle of steel.
Oswell tilted his head back, staring at the ceiling.
Just a dream.
Just a nightmare.
"Arriving at Norick Station. I repeat—arriving at Norick Station," the speaker crackled overhead.
Oswell exhaled slowly. They were finally here.
"Let's borrow a car from the military outpost," Oswell said, already heading toward the exit of Norick Station. "We need to finish this today. This news feels like a ticking time bomb."
Minutes later, a military vehicle pulled away from the station, tires grinding against gravel as it drove toward the countryside. Oswell sat in the back, his eyes fixed out the window, though his mind was clearly elsewhere.
The cityscape faded. Lush green overtook the horizon, tall trees rising on either side of the road like silent sentinels. The deeper they went, the more the air shifted—quiet, almost unnaturally so.
Oswell flexed his hand slowly, watching it open and close.
"I wonder what The Reaper looks like in person," Reginald murmured, eyes trailing the blurred trees outside.
"Red eyes. Duh," Karl said without looking up.
Reginald rolled his eyes and leaned back, but the unease in his chest remained.
After a stretch of silent driving, the road ended at a wide clearing, where a modest two-story cabin stood tucked between trees. It was quiet… but the windows glowed with soft, steady light.
Karl narrowed his eyes. "Looks like someone's here, sir."
Oswell studied the windows, then nodded. "Seems so. Come on. Let's get this over with."
They stepped out of the car. The crunch of boots against gravel was soon drowned by the sound of chirping birds and the gentle rustle of leaves in the breeze. It was peaceful. Too peaceful.
They walked to the front door. Reginald stepped forward and knocked three times, raising his voice as he called out
"Colonel Luther Grim! General Oswell Kinsler is here to deliver a message from His Majesty!"
No response.
He frowned and knocked again, louder this time.
"Colonel Luther Grim, please come out. General Kinsler is here!"
Still silence.
Reginald turned, confused. "Sir, are you sure this is the right place?"
Oswell nodded slowly. "Yes. I'm sure."
But something felt off. The lights were on. There were no signs of travel outside the cabin. Was Luther avoiding them? Or was he simply not alone?
His thoughts were cut short by a sudden click to their left.
They turned.
A man stood just outside the trees, revolver in hand, its barrel aimed directly at Oswell.
He wore white, simple, loose, with black pants. No shoes. Just bare feet pressing lightly into the grass.
But it wasn't the clothes that made Oswell's stomach twist.
It was the man's face.
Pale skin. Black hair. Eyes the color of blood—predatory, unblinking.
The Reaper.
Reginald and Karl reached for their weapons.
"One wrong move," Luther said coldly, "and I'll shoot the old man."
Reginald's eyes sharpened. "Hey—!"
"Stand down," Oswell ordered, raising a hand calmly.
Then he smiled, unshaken despite the gun pointed at him.
"We mean no harm, Colonel. Please put down your gun."
Luther's gaze didn't soften.
"How did you find me?"
Oswell answered evenly, "When you retired, we had someone quietly keep tabs. Just enough to make sure you were really… retiring."
A faint grin tugged at Luther's lips.
"Does my own kingdom not trust me?"
Oswell exhaled. "It does. Only the nobility had doubts. Supreme Command approved it just to keep them quiet. We've done nothing since."
There was a pause.
Then Luther lowered the gun, eyes still sharp. He stepped forward, stopping a few feet from Oswell.
"Come in," he said flatly. "Your subordinate said you had something to tell me."