Class-2 Zone — an area where zombies rarely went past D-rank.With a B-rank captain and C-rank veterans, it should have been simple.
But Damian's blood went cold."The Ashbournes… are they going with you?"
Marcus shook his head, the usual warmth gone from his face."Of course not. They only set the time. We leave the day after tomorrow at eight and report back in five days."
Damian's hand tightened under the table.Typical. Core Families never risked themselves. They sent squads like Iron Fang ahead—pathfinders, or bait.
He thought hard.The site was only half a day's drive from the city.Yet in his last life, the news of their deaths had come on day four, not day five.Someone else had been there—someone who lived to bring the report back.
They all carried terminals with location beacons.Only someone standing at the same site could have confirmed their deaths.
Back then, the explanation was simple: Iron Fang ran into an S-rank zombie. Bad luck. All dead.
A memory surfaced, sharp and unwelcome—Elian's voice echoing through their apartment, disbelief turning to accusation:"You're leaving now? For a team that's already dead? What about me?"It had been their first real clash—the moment a crack appeared in the facade of their perfect life.
He had believed the official story, but he had to know.He'd run everywhere after, pounding on doors until his knuckles split, begging anyone who would listen:Why? What happened? Where are my brothers?
But no one knew. No one cared.Iron Fang were orphans. They died, and the world moved on.
As Marcus spoke, the truth clicked into place—sharp as a blade.The name behind the commission: Ashbourne.
And after that mission, he remembered what followed.The Ashbournes had risen overnight.A new S-rank warrior. An A-rank Psionic with strange healing powers.Two miracles no one else could explain.
Looking back now, it was too clear.Iron Fang hadn't been chosen by chance. They'd been hand-picked—perfect expendables for a secret job.
Ethan leaned forward, grin reckless, eyes bright with fire."Five days? Easy. We'll clear it in three and drink the rest away."
Caleb snorted, folding his thin arms, sarcasm sharp but uneasy."Yeah, right. Pay this high never means simple."
Noah adjusted the worn gloves on his hands. His calm voice cut through the noise."They're paying too much. That alone makes it suspicious."
The table fell silent. Caleb opened his mouth, then shut it again under Noah's steady gaze.
Damian's knuckles whitened against the wood. His jaw locked, eyes cold as steel.Ten years in the outer zone had burned away the old recklessness.
He drew a slow breath.No betrayal. No rebirth.Just the truth—something his brothers would believe.
He leaned forward, voice low and steady."I came tonight because of a rumor. A serious one."