The forest was quiet.
Not completely silent—never truly silent—but quiet in a way that pressed against the mind.
Wind slipped through the high canopy far above, weaving between layers of ancient branches. Leaves brushed softly against one another, producing a dry, whispering friction that seemed distant, almost detached from the ground below. Occasionally, the faint vibration of insect wings flickered through the air, brief and insignificant.
But overall—
It felt empty.
A hollow kind of stillness.
Primeval forests were always like this.
The trees were too large. Too old. Their trunks rose like pillars, thick enough that several men together could not encircle them. Their crowns merged into a continuous ceiling of green and shadow, blocking out most of the sky.
Sunlight could not enter freely.
It slipped through narrow gaps, fractured into scattered beams that fell unevenly to the forest floor. Those patches of light moved slowly, almost imperceptibly, as the wind shifted the canopy above.
Everything felt slow.
Muted.
And watchful.
Mike walked at the front.
His rifle was steady in his hands, angled forward, finger resting near the trigger without touching it. His posture was relaxed on the surface, but every muscle in his body was quietly prepared.
Behind him, two veterans followed.
They maintained distance.
Spacing.
Discipline.
All three moved lightly.
The thick layer of fallen leaves beneath their boots absorbed sound. Each step sank slightly, producing only the faintest compression noise—more felt than heard.
They had already been moving for over ten minutes since leaving the outpost.
Time passed differently in the forest.
Distances stretched.
As he advanced, Mike remained focused.
His ability had never deactivated.
Life detection.
A radius of one hundred meters.
In the city, the ability was almost a burden.
Too many signals.
Too much interference.
Human life signatures overlapped, tangled, layered into an indistinct mass. Distinguishing individuals required effort, concentration, and often yielded little useful information.
But here—
Everything changed.
There were almost no humans.
Only animals.
And animals were simple.
Their life signatures were weaker, less structured, fundamentally different from human ones. The distinction was immediate, instinctive.
So the moment a human entered the radius—
Mike would know.
Immediately.
That was why he had survived here for so long.
Danger rarely arrived without warning.
They continued forward.
The terrain remained deceptively open. The space between trees was wide enough to walk freely, but the uniformity of the environment made orientation difficult. Every direction looked the same—endless trunks, endless leaves, endless muted light.
Fallen logs lay scattered at irregular intervals, some half-buried, some covered in moss.
Without familiarity—
It would be easy to get lost.
But Mike knew this area.
Every subtle slope.
Every cluster of trees.
Every shift in ground texture.
Then—
The veteran in front stopped abruptly.
His body froze mid-step.
His hand rose slightly, palm back.
A signal.
Mike halted instantly.
"What is it?"
No response.
The veteran lowered himself into a crouch.
His hand moved slowly, brushing aside the top layer of dry leaves.
Something dark emerged.
A boot.
Then a leg.
Then the outline of a body.
Military uniform.
Foreign.
Mike stepped forward.
The body lay slumped beside exposed tree roots. Its posture was unnatural—but not chaotic. There were no signs of struggle. No disturbed ground. No broken branches nearby.
It looked almost… placed.
The veteran turned it over.
His movements were practiced. Efficient.
He found the wound within seconds.
"Neck."
Mike's gaze dropped.
The cut was clean.
Not ragged.
Not hurried.
It entered from the side of the neck, angled precisely. The artery had been completely severed. Death would have been instantaneous—or close to it.
"Only one strike."
Mike didn't respond.
He looked for a few seconds longer than necessary.
Then he turned.
"Move."
They continued forward.
Fifty meters.
Another body.
Same uniform.
Same wound.
Third.
Fourth.
Bodies began to appear with increasing frequency.
Some leaned against tree trunks, heads tilted at unnatural angles.
Some lay half-buried in leaves, as if they had simply collapsed mid-step.
Some rested against rocks, frozen in their final moment.
Every single one—
The same.
One cut to the neck.
Clean.
Precise.
Final.
No hesitation.
No second strike.
The forest seemed to grow heavier.
The veterans' breathing changed.
Subtle at first.
Then noticeable.
One of them spoke under his breath.
"We knew the platoon leader was skilled…"
His eyes lingered on one of the bodies.
"But not like this."
The other veteran remained silent for a moment.
Then said quietly,
"This isn't skill."
He paused.
"This is… execution."
A beat.
"…Like a god of death."
Mike said nothing.
But his brow had tightened.
The number of bodies kept increasing.
Then—
A gunshot.
Sharp. Sudden.
It cut through the forest like a blade.
Bang.
The sound echoed, rebounding between trees, distorting direction.
Mike closed his eyes instantly.
His ability surged outward.
Life detection expanded to its limit.
Three human signatures.
Ninety meters away.
Clear.
Defined.
Then—
Two vanished.
Abruptly.
Like candles extinguished.
Only one remained.
And it was moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
Mike's eyes snapped open.
"Prepare for combat!"
The veterans reacted instantly.
Rifles raised.
Bodies shifting into firing stance.
But before they could fully aim—
The air changed.
It thickened.
A crushing force descended from all directions.
No warning.
No transition.
Just pressure.
Overwhelming.
Their bodies were forced downward.
Knees slammed into the ground.
Breathing became difficult, as if invisible hands pressed against their chests.
Their arms trembled.
They could not lift their rifles.
Mike's pupils contracted sharply.
Gravity ability.
The realization came instantly.
Then—
Cold steel touched his throat.
A machete.
The edge rested lightly against his skin.
Enough to kill with a single motion.
Silence fell.
Heavy.
Absolute.
A voice came from behind.
"Oh."
Calm.
Unhurried.
"So it's you."
The pressure vanished.
Just like that.
Mike inhaled sharply, air flooding back into his lungs.
He slowly raised his head.
Joseph stood behind him.
The machete hung loosely in his hand.
Blood still clung to the blade.
His uniform was slightly dirty—dust, faint smears—but nothing excessive.
His breathing remained steady.
Unchanged.
Mike stared.
For a brief moment—
He didn't speak.
Then—
"Platoon leader?"
His voice sounded strange, even to himself.
He steadied it.
"We received intel."
"A special unit from the neighboring country infiltrated the border."
Joseph nodded once.
"Oh."
His gaze shifted deeper into the forest.
There was no tension in his expression.
No urgency.
Only mild interest.
"Seems like a good opportunity."
Mike frowned.
"What opportunity?"
Joseph answered without hesitation.
"Training."
Then he turned.
And left.
No pause.
No further explanation.
Within seconds, the trees swallowed him completely.
Gone.
Mike remained where he was.
Time passed.
No one spoke.
The two veterans exchanged a glance—but said nothing.
Finally—
Mike exhaled slowly.
"We're going back."
They left the forest.
Days passed.
Nothing happened.
No new enemy movement.
No encounters.
No signs.
Patrols continued as scheduled.
Observation posts reported normally.
Radio channels remained active.
Everything—
Normal.
As if the forest had erased everything that had occurred.
Until the fourth day.
Reinforcements arrived.
Search operation initiated.
The first body was found.
Silence.
The procedure was mechanical.
Turn over.
Confirm identity.
Record details.
Then—
A body bag.
The black zipper closed slowly.
The sound was soft.
But sharp.
First bag.
Carried to an open clearing.
Second.
Third.
The bags began to accumulate.
At first—
No one thought much of it.
Scattered engagement.
Ten.
Maybe fifteen.
At most twenty.
But the search continued.
More bodies.
Fourth bag.
Fifth.
Sixth.
Seventh.
The rhythm formed.
Search.
Confirm.
Bag.
Transport.
The recorder spoke quietly.
"Eight."
"Nine."
"Ten."
Someone glanced at the growing row of black bags.
Said nothing.
The numbers kept rising.
Eleven.
Twelve.
Thirteen.
Then—
Over twenty.
A whisper.
"No way…"
No response.
Only the sound of zippers.
Shhh—
Shhh—
Twenty-five.
Thirty.
The bags were rearranged into rows.
Neat.
Orderly.
The air grew heavier.
No one spoke anymore.
Thirty-five.
Forty.
Forty-five.
Someone stopped working.
Just for a moment.
Stared at the bags.
Because a realization had begun to take shape.
Every wound—
Identical.
One cut.
To the neck.
No exception.
Fifty.
The recorder's voice dropped lower.
Fifty-five.
Sixty.
Someone checked again.
Carefully.
Deliberately.
Every single body.
Every single wound.
The same.
Sixty-five.
Seventy.
Sweat ran down faces.
Uniforms clung to skin.
The clearing filled.
Seventy-five.
Eighty.
Breathing felt heavier.
Eighty-five.
Ninety.
Someone stood still.
For a long time.
Just staring.
The final body was brought out.
Placed.
Bagged.
The zipper closed.
Slowly.
Ninety-nine.
The recorder stopped writing.
Silence.
Complete.
Everyone stood there.
No one spoke.
Wind moved through the trees.
Leaves rustled.
Soft.
Distant.
Finally—
A voice.
Barely audible.
"No way… he really…"
The sentence was unfinished.
But unnecessary.
Everyone understood.
No way—
He had wiped out an entire special unit.
No one answered.
The forest remained unchanged.
Quiet.
Indifferent.
As if nothing had ever happened.
The report was sent upward.
Response came quickly.
Orders issued.
Joseph Kane.
Exceptionally promoted.
Rank—Captain.
Awarded the title—
National Hero.