Imagine living in eternal darkness, where every whisper of wind feels like death's breath crawling across your skin, and every unfamiliar sound—a twig snapping, faint footsteps, or the rustle of leaves—freezes the blood in your veins. Your palms sweat cold, your heart pounds like it's trying to rip free from your chest, your face drains of color, your lips tremble uncontrollably, and your mind spins in a vicious whirlwind of overthinking. Even the slightest shift in the air triggers terror that chokes you like an invisible hand around your throat.
That is the hell I lived in every day, every hour, every second.
Out there, professional hunters stalked me relentlessly, their eyes hungry for my blood, seeing me as easy prey—helpless, broken. My skin crawled with hot-and-cold chills just remembering their cold stares through sniper scopes. The moment for true torment was drawing closer, and I knew there was no real escape.
My name was Zeyden Vorathius. Once, I was a member of the most elite unit in the deadliest private military company on Earth—Black Vanguard, the PMC that ruled the shadows of global wars, from Middle Eastern conflicts to covert operations in Africa. My record had been glorious, decorated with medals and heroic tales. At 28, I was promoted to captain—the youngest officer ever to lead a small squad through "impossible" missions with zero casualties on our side.
I wasn't just an ordinary soldier. My gift for tactical strategy, lightning-fast adaptation on the battlefield, and superhuman athleticism—I could run 100 meters in under 9 seconds, lift twice my body weight, go days without sleep—earned me the nickname "super soldier." Perfect, rare genetics combined with years of hellish training in secret facilities: torture simulations, live-fire exercises, extreme starvation. It all forged me into an unstoppable killing machine. My achievements piled up like mountains, praise from high command flowed like rivers, and by age 30 I rose to colonel. Then I was transferred to serve as personal aide and chief bodyguard to the supreme commander's family—General Viktor Draven, the legendary owner of Black Vanguard.
Life felt like the unshakable peak of the world. As Draven's trusted confidant, no one dared touch me. Even senior generals hesitated to give me direct orders, fearing they'd offend the temperamental boss. Everything ran smoothly—until that rainy night when forbidden desire burned it all to ash.
His wife, Elena Draven, was a woman in her late thirties of breathtaking beauty: long, wavy black hair, flawless porcelain skin, a perfectly curved body always hidden beneath elegant dresses, and a carefully crafted image of purity in public. But I knew her secrets. It started with casual conversations in the commander's study, both of us drinking expensive whiskey until we were drunk. We confided in each other, and beneath her gentle, noble facade, I discovered her dark craving: she longed for rough domination from a strong man—something her aging, war-obsessed husband could never give her.
I exploited that vulnerability completely. That night, her lips touched mine first, her hands greedily gripping my chest muscles. Our affair exploded like a bomb.
From then on, we grew wilder. Elena built a secret room in the mansion's basement—soundproof walls, equipped with red bondage ropes, leather whips, and every BDSM toy imaginable. There, I tied her tightly, her naked body trembling under my rough yet controlled touch. I pulled her hair as I took her from behind, her moans filling the room—"Harder, Zeyden… own me completely!"—while I slapped her ass until it glowed red. Slowly, we became bolder, crazier. During family dinners at the long table, under the pristine white tablecloth, my foot would slip between her thighs. Instead of pulling away, Elena would spread her legs wider, sliding her thin silk panties aside, letting my toes tease her soaked labia and swollen clit. She'd smile sweetly at her husband across the table, biting her lip to stifle soft gasps.
The height of madness came when I'd sneak into their master bedroom at midnight. If Draven was passed out drunk after a business meeting, we didn't care anymore. I'd pin Elena to the king-size bed, thrusting deep while her husband snored just meters away. Her loud moans echoed freely, her body arching wildly beneath me, her nails raking my back as wave after wave of orgasms shook her.
But as the old saying goes, no matter how clever the squirrel jumps, it will fall eventually.
That bright afternoon, the commander returned early from the golf course to retrieve his favorite club. The bedroom door flew open. Elena was tied naked to the bed with BDSM ropes, her body slick with sweat after our intense session, while I had just finished inside her. Draven's face flushed crimson, his body shaking with barely contained rage. His eyes narrowed with pure, searing hatred.
His prized .357 Magnum—gold-plated—came out in a flash. The first shot hit Elena square in the heart; she collapsed instantly, blood pouring onto the white sheets, her beautiful eyes frozen wide in eternal shock. The next shots were for me—shoulder, thigh, stomach—all non-lethal, but enough to drop me in a pool of my own blood.
"You won't die easy, you bastard! This betrayal will be repaid a thousandfold with eternal torment!" he snarled, breathing hard, his face twisted like a demon.
As I lay helpless on the floor, he approached and kicked my groin repeatedly with his military boots—brutal blows that destroyed everything. Pain split through me like lightning, and in that moment I knew: my manhood, my future, my pride—all shattered forever. Even with my extraordinary pain tolerance, massive blood loss turned the world black, and I passed out.
I woke in Black Vanguard's secret hospital, my body "healed"—wounds stitched neatly, but I felt a horrifying emptiness between my legs. They had castrated me completely, turning me into a powerless eunuch with a body as weak as a scrawny teenager. The specialist doctor, with his cold smile, had surely acted on Draven's direct orders. True hell awaited: months of sadistic torture while I couldn't fight back at all.
In utter despair, a rival militant force suddenly raided the facility—explosions, gunfire, total chaos. Amid the smoke and screams, I crawled away into the surrounding wilderness mountains.
But too late I realized the new horror: a satellite-based GPS chip embedded deep in my bones, and an advanced neural implant in my brain that detected suicidal intent—triggering pain a thousand times worse along with total paralysis.
Draven was truly insane. He'd planned this long ago as a backup against betrayal, sealing every escape.
Since then, my life became pure extreme terror. The world's best bounty hunters—my former comrades—hunted me without pause. In my weakened state, I survived with primitive guerrilla tactics in steep forests, seeking dense rock crevices to block the GPS signal. Finally, after weeks of starvation and hypothermia, I found a narrow hidden cave in a deep valley, surrounded by thick granite cliffs—the only place the signal couldn't penetrate.
But to survive, I had to venture out at night for food—wild fruit, roots, or traps for small animals. Often, I came dangerously close to fully armed hunter teams, their infrared lights sweeping the darkness. Each time, I hid for hours behind thorn bushes, holding my breath, planning my careful retreat back to the cave.
Gradually, through silent meditation in the cave, I discovered a fatal bug in the neural implant: it couldn't process extreme conflicting absurd logic.
I exploited that flaw coldly. I sought out the largest nests of cobras and vipers in the lower valley, but hypnotized myself as strongly as possible that I was walking into a luxury brothel for a wild orgy with a dozen sexy hookers—naked bodies writhing, huge tits, round asses, ready to service me all night. Even though I was now a eunuch without a cock, the sexual desire still burned in my brain—this horrific conflict overwhelmed the implant, causing a severe logic error.
I imagined the venomous snakes as seductive women crawling over my body, then lay on my back in the middle of their nest. The enraged snakes struck immediately—dozens of bites across my chest, arms, neck, face. Accumulated venom surged through my veins like hellfire. My body convulsed violently, foam bubbled from my mouth, vision faded to black.
When the hunter team arrived with triumphant shouts, they found only my cold, swollen, lifeless corpse—blue and dead.
In the final second before consciousness vanished, I smiled with satisfaction for the first time in months. Finally free from that hell.
But… if only I had a second chance, I would seize absolute power, unlimited strength that no one could touch. Live completely free, exact merciless revenge, and indulge every desire without limits.
That was just the futile fantasy of a dead man… or so I thought, until suddenly my consciousness flared back to life.
I awoke in a stranger's young body—a teenager or early twenties, strong trained muscles, blood coursing with vitality, and most importantly… my groin was whole again, hardening at the slightest stimulation.
My eyes snapped open, staring at a simple bedroom ceiling covered in strange posters. The smell of youth, a soft mattress, and a mirror in the corner showed a new, handsome but unfamiliar face.