Chapter 126 – Hellfire
The gates of Redhold groaned open at dawn.
Axel walked in alone.
He was unrecognizable.
His black coat was torn, soaked in blood — not his. His katana hung from his hip, still dripping crimson, its edge gleaming like it had tasted something it liked. His face was blank, but his eyes...
His eyes burned with hellfire.
Five days.
That's how long he had been gone.
No one at Redhold had heard a word. No transmission. No radio. No signal.
And now, he was back — not as a man, but as a storm that had passed through hell and returned with its fire still in his lungs.
He didn't say a word as he crossed the Hive. Soldiers stepped back. Officers stiffened. Even the arrogant ones who had doubted him, who whispered behind closed doors, now fell silent.
He didn't even slow down.
He marched through the corridor toward the command wing — blood dripping from his fingertips, footprints staining the floor behind him. The scent of smoke and death clung to him like a shadow.
Michael was mid-sentence, standing in the Corridor of Redhold with his officers when the door burst open with a kick that echoed like thunder.
BANG.
Everyone turned.
Axel stood there in the doorway — feral, ferocious, breathing like a beast who hadn't stopped moving in five days.
His voice cut through the silence like a blade.
"It's done, old man."
Michael didn't blink. His officers looked between each other, unsure if they should speak — or run.
Axel stepped in, throwing a folder onto the table in front of them. The leather was smeared with blood. The papers inside half-burned, torn, but still legible.
"Thirty-four men died. Confirmed Ashen Circle," Axel said flatly.
"Ten others — unknown. Not part of the Circle. Civilians maybe. Maybe not. They were in the wrong place."
His eyes glowed with wrath, but his voice remained eerily calm.
"The location is gone. On fire. Erased. They won't be rebuilding anything there."
Michael walked forward slowly.
He didn't look at the folder.
He looked at Axel.
Then he smiled — that rare, dangerous smile that meant something dark inside him had been satisfied.
"You did it alone," Michael said. "Just like you said you would."
Axel's jaw clenched.
"You didn't believe me?"
Michael laughed quietly. "I did. I just didn't think you'd take it personally."
Axel looked down at his bloodied hands, flexing them once.
"I didn't take it personally," he said.
Then he met Michael's gaze.
"I took it professionally."
Michael's officers exchanged glances. One of them whispered something under his breath.
Axel turned to leave.
"Where are you going?" Michael asked.
"Shower. Sleep. Maybe throw up," Axel replied coldly. "I'll be in my room. Don't knock."
"Axel," Michael called out before he could leave.
Axel stopped.
Michael stared at his son — blood-soaked, merciless, and alone.
"Whatever you think of me… You are exactly what I made you to be."
Axel didn't turn around.
But his voice drifted back like smoke.
"No. I'm worse."
Then he disappeared into the corridor — a ghost made of vengeance and ash.
---
Two days passed.
Not a word from Axel. No training. No shouting. No sound.
His room stayed locked tight — lights off, weapons untouched.
But on the third morning, the door creaked open.
Axel stepped out.
A cigarette hung from his lips, lit and slowly burning. He squinted slightly in the hallway light, running a hand through his messy black silver hair, unbothered by the world.
His shirt hung loose over his scarred frame, black pants wrinkled from sleep. The fresh bandages on his arms peeked from under his sleeves. His face still carried a quiet rage — not boiling, not wild — but cold, controlled.
He walked through Redhold without a word.
Soldiers saw him.
They didn't salute.
They didn't speak.
They just… moved out of his way.
He passed the central courtyard. No one dared block him.
They had all heard what happened. Thirty-four dead. A compound wiped off the map. Axel didn't go with a unit. and He came back — soaked in blood, eyes like fire.
Civilian eyes would've gone wide with horror.
But these weren't civilians.
These were soldiers.
They knew what war looked like.
And Axel? He didn't look like war.
He looked like the end of it.
They respected him — deeply, silently, and fully.
The mess hall was nearly full when Axel walked in.
He didn't flinch. Just went straight to the food counter, grabbed a tray, and loaded it like a man who hadn't eaten in years.
Three servings of eggs. Half a roasted chicken. Two slices of bread. A handful of protein bars. He didn't care who was watching.
He sat at a table alone.
Then he ate — no pause, no small talk, no expression.
He devoured the meal like fuel for a dying engine.
Some of the younger recruits whispered among themselves. One officer nudged another. But no one laughed. No one scoffed. They watched in awe, quiet reverence.
Because that wasn't just a soldier.
That was Axel.
The same man who, when ordered to lead a unit, walked into a warzone by himself.
The same man who returned dragging death behind him like a shadow.
The same man who stared down General Michael without blinking — and lived.
And now, here he was.
Alone at a table. Smoking between bites. Eating like he had nothing left but hunger.
Some men feared him.
Some idolized him.
But all of them respected him.
And Axel?
He didn't care about any of it.
He just wanted to eat.
---
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