Chapter 41: The Phantom Operative
Michael Fredrick watched his unit leaders, Vance and York, exit the courtyard with a mix of frustration and lingering excitement. He knew they were disappointed to lose a potential recruit of Ethan's caliber to Division 1, but Michael's eyes were set on a much larger chessboard. In this world, hoarding talent for personal gain was the quickest way to weaken the nation's defenses.
He turned back to his desk, the ancient wood cool beneath his fingers. He called his elite guards to secure the perimeter of the courtyard, ensuring no wandering ears could catch the frequency of his next communication. With a practiced motion, he pulled a second, thinner device from a shielded compartment in his desk—a phone that utilized quantum encryption to reach the very top tier of the National Security Bureau.
He dialed a number that only five people in the country had permission to call.
"Fredrick! What's the matter? Do you finally have a case you can't handle?" A chipper, high-energy voice erupted from the speaker before the first ring could even finish. "Tell me the coordinates. I'll have a strike team in the air within five minutes!"
Michael cracked a rare, genuine smile. "Black Ghost," he said, using the man's full title to ground him. "Calm down. I actually have good news for you this time."
Henry Shawn —known to his inner circle as Black Ghost —paused. As the Commander of Division 1 (the legendary 'Team A' of the NSB), he was used to Michael calling only when a Body Refining Master had gone on a rampage or a foreign intelligence cell had breached the border.
"Good news?" Black Ghost asked, his tone shifting from hyperactive to suspiciously curious. "What kind of good news could you possibly have for me? Did one of your gray-haired veterans in Division 2 finally hit a breakthrough? Who is it? If it's York, tell him I'm still not letting him into my division."
"No," Michael replied, leaning back in his bamboo chair. "I'm referring someone new to you. A potential Freelancer for the Special Elite Reserve."
"A referral? From you?" Scholl laughed, the sound crackling through the encrypted line. "You usually guard your recruits like a dragon guards gold. Who is it? If they aren't a monster, Michael, don't waste the satellite bandwidth."
"A twenty-one-year-old Pseudo-Body Refining Peak Master."
The silence that followed was so absolute it felt like the line had been cut.
"What the f*ck? Michael, are you kidding?" Black Ghost's voice was no longer chipper; it was low, sharp, and dangerously serious.
"Nonsense. Why would I kid you about something that would disrupt the balance of the entire Capital?"
"A peak master at twenty-one..." Black Ghost whispered, seemingly to himself. "Tell me everything. Who are they? What's the pedigree? Is he the hidden heir of the Blackwood affluent family? Or perhaps the successor of one of the Hidden Lands from the Western Range?"
Black Ghost's concern was the same one Michael had harbored. In the martial world, the heirs of the great affluent families or the successors of ancient, hidden sects were double-edged swords. Their value was high, but their loyalty was compromised. They would always put their family's or sect's interests above the nation's. If the country trained them, they often took those secrets back to their clans. They were essentially mercenaries with better manners.
"That's the beauty of it," Michael said, his eyes bright. "He's not the heir of an affluent family or a hidden land. He has a clean background. Every year of his life is traceable—he grew up in the slums, went to a public university, and lived a completely ordinary, even miserable life until a few weeks ago. It's likely he has a mentor who taught him in total secrecy, perhaps under a vow of silence."
"A mentor? Yeah, it wouldn't have been possible to reach the peak of Pseudo-Refining without a master's guidance," Scholl mused. "Who is the master? Did your boys find a trail?"
"Not yet. But judging from what the boy has done since his power was exposed—protecting his peers, showing deep respect for elders like Thorne Sr., and refusing to be bullied—his mentor shouldn't be some villain. A wicked master produces a wicked blade. This boy has a bottom line. He's right-minded."
"Okay then," Black Ghost said, the excitement returning to his voice. "Send me the file. If he's even half as good as you say, Michael, I'll owe you a massive favor. It's been a long time since Division 1 had a young man with that kind of raw talent. Most of my 'young' psychos are already in their thirties."
"I'll send it now. Thanks won't be necessary; we're all sharpening the same sword for the country."
Michael hung up and executed the data transfer. On the other end of the line, in a high-tech command center deep beneath the Capital, Henry Shawn (Black Ghost) watched the file populate on his screen. As he scrolled through Ethan McCain's life—the transition from a bullied student to a man who controlled the Golden Dragon and poses a power of peak Pseudo-Body Refining power —he felt a surge of adrenaline. Thinking it won't be long before he becomes a Body Refining master, A Twenty twenty something Body Refining is someone he'll love to have, his future progress is unlimited.
He saw the potential for Ethan to become a pillar of the nation, a sovereign whose name would deter foreign powers before a single shot was fired.
Henry looked at a map of the province. A member of Division 1 happened to be near the South River border on a different mission. He tapped his comms unit. "I'm sending an invitation. If the boy is the real deal, we'll make him a backup member of Team A tonight."
On the border of the South River Province, in a small, dusty town that seemed frozen in time, Cody Rock was sitting at a rickety wooden table outside a street stall.
He looked like any other tired traveler—wearing a faded jacket, his hair a bit messy, quietly eating a bowl of spicy noodles. No one looking at him would guess that he was one of the 'psychos' from Division 1, a man whose very name could make the leaders of underground martial gangs lose sleep.
Cody was currently tracking an S-class fugitive known as 'The Vulture.' The man was a Body Refining Peak Master who had once been a promising martial artist but had succumbed to the temptations of wealth and power. He had built a criminal syndicate in the shadows, and every rival he encountered died in 'accidents.'
The NSB had sent two Division 2 members to apprehend him, but they had been found three days later, broken and barely alive. After that, the case had been escalated to Division 1.
Jordan had been in this town for three days, but the Vulture was an expert at disappearing. Once people of that caliber went into hiding, they became phantoms. Division 1 was an organization that terrorized the entire martial artist society specifically because they were the only ones who could hunt these phantoms. To the rest of the world, they were elusive, extraordinarily strong, and occasionally unhinged. They could disguise themselves as businessmen, dock workers, or, in Jordan's case, a hungry drifter.
Jordan was halfway through his meal when his inner pocket vibrated—a specific, rhythmic pulse that signaled an encrypted call.
He put down his spoon and fork, pulled out a few bills, and left them under his plate. He walked out of the stall, moving with a lazy gait until he reached a secluded alleyway behind a row of abandoned warehouses. He checked his surroundings, then answered.
"Cody!" The voice of his commander, Henry Shawn, came through.
"It's me, Boss. What do you need? I'm still waiting for the Vulture to pop his head out of the nest," Cody said, his voice low and raspy.
"Forget the Vulture for twenty-four hours," Arthur commanded. "I have a priority shift. Head into South River City immediately."
Jordan's eyebrows shot up. "South River? That's Division 2 territory. Michael Fredrick's boys having trouble with their paperwork again?"
"This isn't about trouble; it's about a referral," Arthur explained. "Michael found a kid. Ethan McCain. Twenty-one years old, Pseudo-Body Refining Peak Rank. He's being vetted for a Freelance position in Division 1."
Jordan let out a sharp, incredulous whistle that echoed off the warehouse walls. "A peak master at twenty-one? Boss, you've been in the Capital too long. The air is getting to your head. That doesn't exist."
"That's why you're going there. I need eyes on him. If he's a fraud, ignore him. But if he's the real deal... if he actually has the aura of a peak master at that age, give him the Silver Invitation. We need to secure him before the Wraith Wing or the private clans try to snatch him up."
Jordan leaned against a rusty metal door, a cold, curious glint in his eyes. "A twenty-one-year-old peak master... If that's true, he's not just a talent. He's a freak of nature. What's the catch? Is he arrogant?"
"Michael says he's right-minded, but his background is a mystery. He likely has a master who doesn't want to be found. Just meet him, gauge his strength, and offer him the backup position. Don't provoke him, Jordan. If he's as strong as the report says, you might not win a direct fight without a full tactical squad."
Jordan chuckled, a dry, metallic sound. "Now I'm definitely interested. A kid who can give a Division 1 veteran a run for his money? I'll be in the city by nightfall. Where is he?"
"He's staying at the Golden Dragon. It's his property now."
"His property? Billions in the bank and peak strength at twenty-one?" Jordan shook his head, pushing off the wall. "The world is getting weirder every day, Boss. I'm moving out now."
Jordan hung up and crushed the disposable SIM card between his fingers. He looked back at the street stall for a moment, then disappeared into the shadows of the alleyway.
He was no longer a hungry drifter. His eyes were sharp, his posture balanced. He was a hunter, and he was headed toward South River City to see if this 'Ethan McCain' was a dragon in the making—or just a well-funded shadow.