Once the plague god Leon was finally out the door, Dominik returned to the living room and looked at Simon. "I want to form a mercenary group. The initial roster... just you and me for now."
"Alright." Simon had no objections. He would do whatever Dominik asked without hesitation.
He paused, though, pointing out a practical issue. "Since you're dead set on this, you need a name for the group. And a codename for yourself."
Dominik frowned. Coming up with aliases was always a massive headache.
"You're the leader," Simon suggested. "Your surname is Corvinus, so why not the Raven Mercenary Group?"
"Raven?" Dominik crossed his arms. "Sounds a bit grim."
"Ravens mean adaptability. Survival. They don't quit. I think it fits."
Dominik gave in. "Fine, Raven Mercenary Group it is. Which makes my codename... Raven."
Simon stared at him in profound disbelief. "You? Raven?"
"What's the problem?"
Simon shook his head. "You couldn't pass a basic infantry fitness test right now. Calling yourself Raven is laying it on pretty thick."
Dominik elbowed him in the chest with a grin. "That's why I have you to train me."
"Yeah, yeah. Since you're committed to this delusion, we hit the shooting range this afternoon. Tonight we cover basic close-quarters combat."
Dominik rubbed his chin. "Say we had the budget to recruit one more person today. What role do we actually need?"
Simon mapped it out immediately. "I can run marksman or sniper. I handle machine guns and submachine guns well enough to breach, but precision fire is my primary. If we bring someone else on, we want a heavy support gunner to lay down suppressive fire. A top-tier sniper is the next best option. With me spotting, we could lock down a 1500-meter radius."
Simon took a breath. "Honestly though? A combat medic is the gold standard. They're just impossible to find. A good medic performs trauma surgery under active fire and keeps you breathing during the golden hour. Most guys don't die instantly on a deployment; they bleed out waiting for a medevac. But medics are rare because the training is brutal, and any medic worth their salt can walk into a cushy civilian trauma ward after their discharge. It beats getting shot at for a living."
Dominik did the mental math. "If we had the cash, I'd hire all three."
"Sure. Assuming elite operators actually wanted to work for two guys operating out of a living room," Simon replied.
Dominik waved him off. Their liquid funds barely broke 700,000, but he didn't care about street-level hires anyway. He had the summoning system. Quality was guaranteed.
"Restroom," Simon said, standing up. "Be right back."
Once he was alone, Dominik focused inward. System, I'm burning an A-rank gacha card.
[Acknowledged. You have one A-rank gacha card. Use it?]
Do it.
A violent purple light flared across his vision. Two seconds later, the rugged profile of a heavily armored soldier rendered in the air.
Dominik read the name and froze. "Toxik? You have to be kidding me."
[Zoya Pomchenkova, codename Toxik.]
[Shooting: 85
| Reaction: 83
| Combat: 88
| Luck: 82 ]
[Area Denial: Specialized support training allows her to establish impenetrable defensive perimeters. Suppresses enemy movement and boosts morale. Allies within 20 meters gain +1 to all attributes.] [Combat Medic: Executes rapid emergency surgery in active warzones. Grants a 50 percent survival chance for severe, life-threatening trauma.]
[Congratulations. You have obtained the A-rank Support specialist, Toxik.]
[Zoya Pomchenkova's implanted identity is a former classmate from your university days in Budapest. Her father is a Russian engineer, and her mother is a Hungarian trauma surgeon.]
[After failing to pursue you romantically during college, she dropped out, enlisted, and became an elite support gunner and field medic. She retired six months ago and returned to Europe. Through system-provided channels, she obtained your exact address and is currently en route to your villa.]
Dominik swore quietly. He hadn't expected to pull a heavy gunner who doubled as a trauma surgeon on day one. Having Toxik around meant catching a stray round wasn't an automatic death sentence.
Then the implanted memories hit him like a freight train.
Back during his first year in Budapest, his looks and athletic build drew a lot of attention. Zoya was one of the girls who noticed him, and easily the most aggressive about it.
He was obsessed with his history degree and securing his sister's future at the time. He had zero interest in Zoya's relentless confidence. The more he brushed her off, the harder she tried.
Eventually, he made a reckless bet just to get her to back off. He told her he would date her if she managed to make a real name for herself entirely outside her parents' comfortable sphere of influence.
She took it literally. Zoya dropped out of university and joined the military. He never spoke to her again.
"Hell," Dominik muttered, rubbing his temples. A girl's ambition mattered just as much as her looks, and he had treated it like a joke.
Simon walked back in carrying a mug of coffee. "Who are you talking to?"
"Huh?" Dominik turned around.
Before he could explain, heavy fists started pounding against the front door.
A sharp, furious voice ripped through the heavy wood. "Dominik. You bastard. You owe me my youth. Get out here right now."
Simon pointed his coffee mug at the entryway. "Friend of yours?"
Dominik swallowed hard. He nodded instinctively, then caught himself and started waving his hands like a madman. "No. Tell her I died."