CHAPTER 1 – The Missing One
The corridor stretched on like the inside of a great steel beast, its ribs made of metal panels, its breath a low mechanical hum. The man walked at an even pace, boots striking the polished floor in a rhythm so measured it almost felt rehearsed. His uniform was immaculate — black with deep crimson trim, heavy medals shining faintly in the overhead light. To most, he was intimidating simply by existing; to those who knew his rank, he was something far more dangerous.
Behind him, the assistant struggled to match his long strides. She was young — not inexperienced, but still learning how to walk in his shadow. A thin folder was clutched in her hands, papers threatening to slip free with every hurried step. She cleared her throat softly.
"Sir… I've just received word from the Eastern Branch. There's been an… incident in Seoul."
He did not look at her, nor slow down. "Incident?"
"A detonation. Small scale. One of the southern camps. Seven soldiers confirmed dead. No civilians." Her voice faltered briefly. "It appears to have been an accident."
Still no reaction from him.
They turned a corner, passing under a long row of surveillance monitors. Images flickered — some showing crowded streets in Tokyo, others silent military checkpoints somewhere far colder.
She glanced at the floor, then spoke again, quieter this time. "Eight soldiers were supposed to be there. One body is missing."
That made him stop. Just for a second.
"Missing?" His tone was neither surprised nor alarmed — only mildly interested, as though this was a detail he had already expected.
"Yes. The roster confirms it. But… there's no trace. No remains, no transmission. Nothing."
He resumed walking, a faint shadow of a smile ghosting over his features. "We'll discuss it later."
The assistant hesitated. "Sir… I—" She stopped herself. There was something about his expression, about the way his hands were folded behind his back, that told her he already knew far more than she did.
As they neared the elevator to the upper conference wing, her mind began to turn over the facts in silence. Eight soldiers… seven bodies… If the missing one isn't dead… She bit her lip. Could they have caused it?
A faint buzz in her earpiece interrupted her thoughts. She touched it instinctively.
"Message for you," came the quiet voice of a field operator on the line. "About the missing one."
Her pulse quickened. "Send it."
The data packet slid into her secure terminal. Her tab display lit up with the soldier's file — no photo, just a name, age, and service history so heavily censored it was almost useless. But she froze at the designation.
---
The man — her superior — glanced back just once before the elevator doors opened. His voice was calm, almost casual. "Stay outside during the meeting. This is… beyond your clearance."
She nodded automatically, though curiosity burned in her chest.
He stepped inside and the doors slid shut, leaving her alone in the sterile hallway.
Beyond my clearance, she thought. And yet he walks in like he already knows what's going to be said.
---
The conference chamber above was nothing like the hall below. Here, walls of tinted glass looked out over the not so modern Tokyo, the city somehow existing even after numerous wars. The table was long, steel edges gleaming under pale light.
The man took his seat at the head, clasping his hands as other high-ranking officers filtered in. None of them spoke at first. They didn't need to — the tension in the air was thick enough to feel.
Finally, a thin, sharp-featured colonel at the far end cleared his throat. "We've confirmed the list for the current operation. One more will be added."
From the corner of the room, a figure stepped forward. Clad entirely in matte black uniform, their face hidden behind a featureless visor, they moved with the silent precision of a predator.
"This is Ghostblade," the colonel said simply. "Primary assignment: locate and terminate the missing soldier from the Seoul incident. Possibility of treason is… high."
No one asked for details.
The man at the head of the table said nothing — but his eyes lingered on Ghostblade for a long moment, as though measuring something unseen.
---
Somewhere else
The bus rattled along a cracked road, the sea visible in the distance through streaked windows. Rust clung to the metal handrails, and the air carried the heavy mix of saltwater and oil from the fishing docks they'd passed an hour ago.
Raiden sat near the back, his posture loose but his eyes scanning everything — the half-asleep driver, the shifting bags of rice in the aisle, the elderly woman who kept glancing at him with a mixture of suspicion and pity.
His reflection in the window was faint, almost ghost-like. Dark hair cropped close, an old scar running just under his jawline. His clothes were plain, but his boots — heavy military issue — didn't match the rest.
The bus jolted, and a boy sitting across from him dropped a toy soldier onto the floor. Raiden picked it up and handed it back.
"Thanks," the boy mumbled before turning away.
Raiden leaned back, but his mind was already slipping elsewhere —
---
The training yard was nothing but mud that day. Rain poured so hard it blurred the faces around him, but the instructors didn't call it off. Eight of them in the line. Always eight. He remembered the smell of wet earth, the sound of boots squelching, the crack of gunfire in the distance.
"Number Eight, again," a voice had barked.
He'd pushed forward, body screaming from the last run, lungs burning as if fire had replaced the air. One by one, the others had fallen behind. And when he reached the finish, the instructor hadn't praised him — just written something down on his clipboard and turned away.
---
Raiden blinked, forcing the memory back down. The boy with the toy soldier was staring at him now, but quickly looked away.
He checked the horizon. Somewhere far ahead, the road split — one path leading to the city, the other into the mountains. He knew which one he would take.
And he knew someone would be waiting.
---
Elsewhere
Ghostblade stood in a shadowed room, visor tilted slightly toward the bustling city outside. A faint buzz cut through the silence, and they tapped the comms unit built into their collar.
A voice came through — cold, efficient, without even the pretense of humanity.
"Eliminate Trainee Number Eight. No remains."
Ghostblade didn't respond. They didn't need to.
The line went dead.