Chapter 90: Who Is He?

In the capital of the Minia Federation, Weststar, stood the Seven Stars Building.

This sprawling structure had been erected decades earlier on a vast uninhabited swamp along the Potomac River. To secure its foundation, construction workers had driven 41,492 cement pillars deep into the ground and hauled 680,000 tons of sand and gravel from the nearby Potomac, compressing it into 300,000 cubic meters of reinforced concrete.

Since that time, this edifice had served as the headquarters of the Minia Federal Department of Defense, the command core and controller of the world's largest military force.

In a corner of this majestic irregular building, on the eighth floor within an office, the deputy aide to the Deputy Commander of the Joint Special Operations Command, Lieutenant Colonel Wetner, was organizing files on General Dean's desk.

These files held no higher secrets. General Dean had always been a soldier who followed the rules with utmost precision; he would never permit any breach of security. Everything Lieutenant Colonel Wetner saw were matters he should or could see. Now the general attended a high-level secret conference at the White House Presidential Palace, perhaps a prelude to further promotion. Lieutenant General MacLaren was growing old and nearing retirement, yet these years of operational command had in fact been directed by General Dean.

Lieutenant Colonel Wetner smiled with quiet satisfaction. The general's advancement would benefit him as well, would it not?

Bang!

The office door was thrust open with force. The heavy alloy barrier flew aside and crashed against the wall in a thunderous clang.

"General, you're back..." Lieutenant Colonel Wetner looked up. General Dean's face was dark, his eyes blazing with fury as he strode into the room. Wetner fell silent.

"Out!" General Dean took several steps to the desk, dropped into the oversized chair with a scowl, breathing heavily, his military tunic stretched taut across his heaving chest.

Lieutenant Colonel Wetner saw no point in drawing attention to himself. He slipped quietly from the office and closed the door behind him.

Bang! A muffled yet deafening impact sounded from within the slowly closing alloy panel. Wetner recognized the sound of the general slamming his fist onto the desk. With it came the general's roar that echoed down the entire office corridor: "Damn it!"

Lieutenant Colonel Wetner shivered. He had followed the general for more than seven years. He knew him well: a terrifying special warrior on the battlefield, an elite who had defeated countless foes both physically and psychologically, yet in daily life the general was a man of refined dignity. Wetner had never seen him lose control like this.

"What's happened?" he wondered as he returned to the deputy aide's room and sat at his desk.

After the initial outburst, General Dean had regained his composure—at least outwardly. Seated at his window desk, he peered through special bulletproof glass that allowed a clear view outward but blocked anything from the outside world. He glared at the distant white circular tower where the politicians were still plotting lies. These bastards! He should have drawn his weapon and ended them right there.

Yet General Dean, a battle-hardened special elite with iron self-control, soon set those useless thoughts aside and turned his mind to the next step.

Those bastards... perhaps it was time to do something...

As if making a decision, General Dean opened a small password box and drew forth a yellowed photograph. He stared at the ordinary-looking man with a solemn expression, speechless for a long moment.

Five hundred kilometers northwest of Weststar, in the central stretch of the East Lachel Mountain Range, rose a towering isolated peak. Over three thousand six hundred meters high with a relative elevation exceeding one thousand meters, it had a base circumference of less than one kilometer and rose almost vertically, like a sharp blade driven into the clouds.

The summit was bare, with only a few large trees visible at the peak. Beneath them stood a thatched hut.

No one had ever reached the summit, yet many knew that a devout ascetic monk lived there. Each evening, hymns and the chanting of the Holy Emperor Chronicle rose from the peak and echoed through the mountains for a long time.

With the recitations and hymns came dense, holy beams of sacred light. Those who heard the hymns, bathed in that light, and felt its embrace discovered their faith in the Holy Emperor growing deeper, their convictions firmer, and even their bodies seeming healthier.

In time, crowds of believers gathered daily to listen to the beautiful hymns, be bathed in the holy radiance, and sense the majesty and grace of the Holy Emperor.

Yet for more than a decade no one had climbed the peak. No one had seen the man's face. Even the food and clothing sent up in baskets hanging from the peak was returned unchanged; only the hymns of praise and confessions offered to the Holy Emperor were left behind.

On this day, at dusk, as the believers were about to disperse after the songs ended, a traveler arrived—a mailman who had driven a battered off-road vehicle up the narrow winding mountain road.

He placed an unremarkable letter into the basket, watched it rise to the peak, then grumbled about the cursed road and drove back down on his old vehicle.

Minutes later, a majestic force surged skyward. Muffled yet grand hymns seemed to sound from the horizon. A holy, blade-like light shot from the peak straight into the heavens!

The descending believers felt, in that instant, boundless wrath and crushing pressure. Each one fell to the ground, trembling violently...

Nine o'clock sharp, Weststar, the Seven Stars Building.

People passed in and out—some in suits, some in full military dress, some hurrying, some strolling. Duty officer Sergeant Womatt stared straight ahead as though oblivious. Yet every face he saw was locked in his memory.

As an old veteran of this building, one of the world's most influential structures, he believed no one could slip past him. Even a fly would not be allowed entry without his permission.

But his gaze soon froze.

A middle-aged man in plain clothes, expression calm, walked slowly from the opposite end of the street. His steps were unhurried, yet he passed everyone else and stopped before Sergeant Womatt.

His body was slender, his face unremarkable, but his eyes were an unusual gray-brown. The gray irises and whites seemed empty yet luminous, as though they could draw a soul in and hold it forever.

Sergeant Womatt did not ask for identification. Just as he opened his mouth, the man calmly produced a medal and pinned it to his chest.

National Special Honor Medal! Sergeant Womatt's eyes widened.

This was the highest decoration known to Minia Federal soldiers. Its bearer could enter any military installation at will and even access the federation's most sensitive core secrets.

More importantly, the medal had been awarded to only one person—and it had been created specially for him!

Sergeant Womatt remembered his superiors' words from his first day on the security team: the owner of this mysterious medal could appear anywhere in the building; a permanent office had been reserved for him in this crowded structure.

They had never described his appearance or his past deeds.

It was clear many others had noticed the unusual man. A murmur of astonishment rose from several high-ranking generals who had passed moments earlier:

"The Saint!"

"Who did I see?"

"My God, it's him—he's back!"

Sergeant Womatt watched the man walk past him and enter the building. Only one thought remained in his mind: Who exactly was he?

On the island of the Holy Emperor of Light, before the ruined statue of the Holy Emperor.

The middle-aged man knelt quietly in front of the statue, praying softly.

"Merciful Holy Emperor, your light shines upon the earth and blesses all people. Those who do not believe in the Holy Emperor shall not live forever. Those who defile the Holy Emperor's glory shall fall into hell forever..."

His voice was low, yet carried across the heavens. His body seemed to radiate holy light.

When the prayer ended, the man rose and walked step by step to General Dean, hundreds of meters away.

"How was it?" General Dean asked.

They had spent nearly ten hours examining the island's main battlefields.

The more he observed, the more astonished General Dean became. Silent assassinations, bizarre explosions, precise sniping, and over a hundred dead assault troops all spoke of a fierce battle. The opponent had been an extraordinarily powerful special team.

Yet some traces were clearly not human-made—frozen marks that had not yet fully melted and a colossal statue that had collapsed without explosion.

"The opponent was a special warfare team of extremely limited numbers," the middle-aged man said calmly, "but some of them or other existences joined the fight, and their traces cannot be found."

He waved a hand to interrupt General Dean. "I need time."

General Dean nodded.

"I have duties to perform. I require authorization and relevant documents."

"No problem." General Dean agreed without hesitation. He trusted this ordinary man absolutely. If he wished it, no one in the world could stop him. Even against a special elite who had wiped out an entire Sea God Six team, he would ensure that anyone who killed Minia Federal soldiers paid with a lifetime of regret.

The man said nothing more. He turned toward the statue's ruins and bowed solemnly. "Your subjects, Saint Galler Sham, swear in the name of the Holy Emperor: Those who anger the Holy Emperor shall enter hell and be burned by endless flames forever..."

"Saint"—the unique surname prefix of the highest-ranking saints of the Holy Emperor Church, those most devout and canonized by it!

"Galler"—the legendary name of the great envoy who wielded boundless power, guarded the Holy Church, eradicated heretics, and made special contributions to the light of the Holy Emperor shining over the earth!

End of Volume 1