Chapter 130: Cigarettes and Ghosts
The lights in the medical bay were dim.
A steady beep pulsed from the heart monitor. The air smelled of alcohol, gauze, and quiet.
Axel's eyes fluttered open.
Pain greeted him like an old friend. His body felt like shattered steel wrapped in raw flesh. Every bone in his frame screamed, but his face remained still. Cold. Emotionless.
He blinked once.
Twice.
Then turned his head slowly—so slowly it felt like rusted machinery grinding back to life.
His father was there.
General Michael reed, seated in the corner of the room, elbows resting on his knees, a file clutched loosely in one hand. His eyes—those cold, gray eyes that had seen decades of war—looked tired.
Older than they should.
Axel's voice came out in a low, gravel-coated whisper.
"…still alive?"
Michael nodded once. "Barely."
Another long silence passed between them. The weight of truth hung heavy, invisible but undeniable.
Michael stood and walked over to his son's bedside.
"I owe you the truth," he said.
Axel didn't speak. He just stared, dead calm, waiting.
So Michael told him.
He told him everything.
About the Project , the early experiments, the behemoth that was supposed to be the future of war. He told him about how the creature turned, how it became something far worse than they imagined. How he lied to Axel—sent him in blind to confront a nightmare born from his own sins.
He didn't sugarcoat it.
And Axel listened. Quiet. Still. Blank.
No rage. No fury. Just cold comprehension.
When Michael finished, he stood in silence, waiting for an explosion, a scream, a curse—something.
But instead, Axel shifted slightly, his voice barely more than breath:
"…Cigarette, old man."
Michael blinked.
"What?"
Axel's gaze was steady. "Cigarette."
That was it.
No threats. No anger. Just that.
And for the first time in his entire life, Michael didn't know what to do.
His son had killed the hulking behemoth—a thing that was never supposed to die. He had dragged its corpse back. He had survived what no one else could.
And now he just wanted a smoke.
That realization—it shook something loose in Michael.
He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his pack, and slid a single cigarette between Axel's lips.
Then lit it for him with the silver lighter he always carried.
Axel inhaled deeply, the ember glowing as he closed his eyes for a moment. He exhaled slow, letting the smoke drift up toward the cracked ceiling.
Michael lit one for himself, leaning back in the chair beside the bed.
They smoked in silence.
Time passed, measured only in heartbeats and smoke rings.
Then, Axel spoke again—this time, softer than before. A question wrapped in iron.
"…Father."
Michael turned slightly. "Yeah?"
"Tell me the truth. No more lies."
Michael said nothing, waiting.
"Did you ever love her?" Axel asked, his tone unreadable. "My mother."
Michael stared at the floor, the cigarette trembling just slightly in his fingers.
"And… Eil," Axel continued. "My little brother. Did you love him?"
That silence came back, heavier now. A silence full of ghosts.
Michael didn't answer right away.
He took another drag from the cigarette. The ember burned brighter. He exhaled.
And finally, he spoke.
"…Yes," he said quietly. "I did."
He looked at his son then—not the soldier, not the weapon, not the monster.
Just the boy he once held.
"I loved your mother. In my own way. And Eil… he reminded me of everything I wanted to protect, and everything I failed."
Axel watched him.
But he didn't reply.
He just smoked.
Like the truth meant nothing anymore. Or maybe like it meant everything.
Michael leaned back again, the chair creaking.
"I know you hate me," he said.
Axel didn't deny it.
"I know I made you into what you are."
Axel said nothing.
"But I also know this," Michael added, almost to himself. "If the world's gonna survive… it needs you. Just like this."
Axel took one final drag.
Then dropped the cigarette into the ashtray.
His eyes locked on his father's with that same dead, frozen calm.
"Then the world's already dead," he muttered.
And leaned back against the pillows.
Smoke curling from his lips like a final, quiet war cry.
---
The wind outside Redhold howled against the iron walls like a beast clawing at its cage. Inside, the air was still. Tense. Almost brittle.
Axel stood near the door of the Corridors of Redhold, a cigarette burning between his fingers.
He didn't speak.
Didn't move much.
Just leaned there with his back against the cold steel wall, exhaling smoke in slow, steady breaths. His eyes were low—not blank, but distant. Watching nothing and everything all at once.
He was almost fully healed. Almost. The bruises had faded, but the pain still lingered deep in his muscles, in his ribs, behind his bones like ghosts that refused to leave.
Inside the command hall, General Michael stood with his officers.
The room was lit by old overhead lights that flickered every so often, casting momentary shadows across their faces. Maps were scattered across the table—satellite prints, troop movement markers, surveillance photos.
Michael's voice cut through the tension, low and controlled.
"They've made their move."
The officers shifted. Some leaned in. Others straightened like they were bracing for a storm.
Axel looked up slightly, eyes narrowing—but still said nothing.
Michael continued, pointing at a location circled in red ink on the map.
"The Ashen Circle raided one of our southern outposts two nights ago. Slaughtered everyone. Forty-two men. Gone."
An officer—Colonel Ryans—spoke. "The surveillance feeds went dead at 0200. No gunfire. No alarms. Just… silence. And then ash."
Michael nodded grimly.
"They burned the bodies. Every single one. Left only bone. No survivors. No messages. Just their mark."
He turned and tapped a grainy photograph pinned to the board—a black symbol burned into concrete
Axel flicked the ash from his cigarette without looking.
"Their leader?" asked one of the officers.
Michael's jaw tightened. "Still unknown where he is But they're organized now. This wasn't random. It was a message."
He paused. His eyes shifted to Axel, who hadn't moved an inch.
"They knew what they were doing. They didn't just hit us. They're taunting us."
The room went quiet.
A silence that felt like the calm before the detonation.
Axel took another drag. The cigarette was burning close to the filter now. He hadn't spoken a word, but his presence alone had changed the air in the room.
Michael looked at his son again—at the bruises still healing across his jawline, at the knuckles still raw, at the eyes that had stared down a creature not even God could kill.
"You're not ready," Michael said carefully. "I know that. But when you are… they're next."
Axel finally spoke. Quiet. Calm.
His voice like gravel soaked in oil.
"…They should've waited longer."
The room held its breath.
Axel tossed the finished cigarette onto the ground and crushed it beneath his boot. Then he pushed off the wall and walked toward the table slowly.
He looked down at the map.
At the red circle.
At the burning eye.
He whispered something under his breath—barely audible.
Michael stepped closer. "What did you say?"
Axel raised his eyes, meeting his father's gaze with dead calm.
" I'm not afraid of fire father."
Then he turned and walked out, the door echoing shut behind him.
No one spoke for a long time.
Because they all knew—Axel would bring hell with him.
And The Ashen Circle had just made a mistake.
---
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