Please! He's innocent!" Evelyn's voice cracked like glass.
Adrian turned his head one last time.
Two guards yanked him by the arms as she lunged forward, but a third guard stopped her with a firm grip on her shoulder.
"Don't touch her!" Adrian roared, struggling against his chains.
"Don't make it worse," one of the guards hissed, tightening the cuffs on his wrist. "You're already dead. Just not buried."
They dragged him through the back door of the courthouse. No goodbyes. No justice. Just silence.
Blackstone Camp wasn't a place you walked into.
You were thrown in.
And when the gates closed behind Adrian, the world forgot him.
They stripped him. His name, his rank, his past. Even his number tag was a joke "404." Like an error code. Like he didn't exist anymore.
"We don't say names here," a guard told him as they shaved his head. "Names are for men. You? You're nothing."
The floors were always wet. Mold ran up the walls like veins. Screams echoed day and night. No one knew whether they came from one man or a hundred.
It started with the cold.
No blanket. No shoes. Just the cold concrete against his skin.
Then came the hunger.
The food if it could be called that was colorless and tasteless.
Some days, it was half cooked rice. Other days, dry oats with dead bugs. Once, he found a rat's tooth in his soup.
Still, Adrian didn't break.
Not when they beat him with wires. Not when they tied his arms behind his back and left him hanging for hours.
Not even when they forced him to watch other prisoners being whipped into unconsciousness.
What broke him…
…was remembering Evelyn's silence.
He had offered everything.
His life.
His loyalty.
His very soul.
And when he needed her most, she looked away.
Three weeks passed.
Adrian lost track of time.
"Eat" one of the guards grunted, tossing him a stale biscuit.
"I'm not hungry," Adrian muttered, staring at the wall.
"You think you're better than the rest?" The guard stepped in. "Maybe you need another reminder."
He kicked Adrian in the ribs, hard. Adrian gasped, blood filling his mouth.
"You'll speak when spoken to."
Adrian wiped the blood with the back of his hand. "One day, I'll make you regret every second of this."
The guard laughed. "You'll be dust before that day ever comes."
But inside, something had shifted.
He began training in secret.
Push-ups with a broken arm. Squats until his legs trembled. He studied the patterns of the guards, the layout of the fences, even the timing of the alarms.
Every day was pain.
But pain became routine.
Routine became purpose.
He was building something.
A reason to live.
"You ever wonder if he's still alive?" a soldier in Marcus's estate whispered.
"Who? That traitor? Adrian?"
"Yeah. I heard no one ever comes back from Blackstone."
"Good. He deserves to rot."
Six months later.
The night was thick with smoke.
Blackstone burned.
No one knew how it started. Some said the generator exploded. Others claimed the prisoners revolted.
But one thing was certain:
Only one man escaped.
The guards didn't see him coming. He was shadow and fury.
He moved like a storm, taking out anyone in his path.
His body was leaner now tough, carved by agony.
His eyes? Hollow.
Not empty.
Focused.
Cold.
A name began to spread in whispers through military bases, underworld dens, and elite gatherings:
The Exiled Warlord.
In an abandoned bunker on the outskirts of the border, two mercenaries sat cleaning rifles.
"You hear the story?"
"About the ghost soldier? The one who escaped Blackstone?"
"Yeah. They say he walks with death now. No master. No laws. Only revenge."
"What's he look like?"
"They say he wears a broken dog tag and a burn across his back. But it's his eyes that kill you first. You see them, and you know "
A third voice interrupted.
"You're already dead."
They spun around.
Adrian stepped from the shadows.
The first man reached for his weapon. Too late.
Adrian's blade was faster.
The second man tried to run. Adrian grabbed his collar, slammed him into the wall.
"Tell Marcus," Adrian whispered, eyes glowing with hatred, "I'm coming back. Not as a soldier. Not as a man who begs."
The mercenary choked. "W..Who are you?"
Adrian leaned close.
"I'm the ghost you buried… but forgot to kill."
Across the country, Marcus poured himself a glass of wine.
Evelyn sat by the window, still wearing black.
"You should move on," Marcus said. "He made his choice."
Evelyn didn't reply. Her eyes were fixed on the moon.
She whispered, "Then why do I feel like he's coming back?"
Marcus snorted. "From where? The grave?"