CHAPTER 170: SILVERLINE!!!

Citadel City — Safehouse

The next morning arrived gray and heavy, the kind of cold light that didn’t feel like daybreak at all. The rain from the night before still lingered, streaking across the tall windows of the safehouse. The air smelled faintly of steel and burnt coffee.

Miles sat on the couch, the soft hum of a tablet flickering in his lap. His eyes were cold, fixed on the endless reports scrolling before him. Photos. Maps. Vehicle logs. Security feeds.

And still, not a single answer.

He leaned back, eyes narrowing. "How can someone disappear from a locked armored truck?" he muttered to himself. "It’s never happened before."

The room was silent except for the ticking of a wall clock. He rubbed his temple slowly. Everything about this operation had gone right—too right—until it all collapsed. After getting his hands on Kyle and Chester so easily, losing them was not just a failure. It was a message.

He replayed the moment again and again in his head. The explosion. The shattered road. The van turning into twisted metal and smoke. His men searching through the wreckage only to find nothing—no bodies, no blood, no trace. Just air.

"If The WEB wanted to save them," he murmured under his breath, "then why did Thea give me the evidence against them? And if The WEB didn’t take them... who did?"

He sat there for a long minute, motionless, until a soft knock came from the door.

"Come in," he said flatly.

The door opened, and Monica stepped in—Dark coat, radio still on, her usual calm unshaken but her eyes a touch heavier than usual.

"Boss," she said quietly, "the plane’s ready. You have to leave now. Tomorrow’s Sunday."

Miles didn’t look up immediately. "Why are you here, Monica?"

She sighed, stepping closer. "I know it’s frustrating, boss. But it wasn’t anyone’s fault."

Miles looked up at her, his tone low and sharp. "No. It’s my fault. I should’ve ended it in the meeting hall. Should’ve just killed them right there."

Monica shook her head. "You did what you felt was right. It wasn’t only your loss, Miles—it was mine too." She hesitated, then pulled a folded report from her vest pocket and handed it over. "I checked the site again. We found something."

Miles skimmed the first few pages. His jaw tightened. "An explosive?"

She nodded. "Yes. Planted directly under the road. Remote detonation. The type used for high-level military sabotage."

Miles frowned. "In the road? You mean someone dug it out and buried it there without anyone noticing?"

Monica crossed her arms. "That’s the strange part. It wasn’t long-term. The soil analysis shows the explosive was set less than an hour before detonation. Whoever did it knew exactly when and where that convoy was going to pass."

Miles’ voice dropped. "So someone was watching us inside the estate."

"It seems so," Monica said. "But here’s what’s worse—we’ve checked the entire perimeter, the nearby forest, and every route out of the city. There’s no sign of them. It’s like they vanished into thin air."

Miles stared at the floor. "You think it’s an inside job?"

Monica shook her head immediately. "Not a chance. That team might technically fall under Sterling Security now, but they’re my best operatives. I handpicked them. I know every one of them personally. There’s no mole in that squad."

Miles leaned back and exhaled. "I believe you." He rubbed his chin in thought, voice steady but heavy with disbelief. "Keep the investigation running. If they were saved, it means someone has plans for them—and that means they’ll come back for us."

Monica nodded, pulling out her phone. "I’ll arrange eyes on the Sterling family and ACE Group twenty-four-seven. And I’ll tighten surveillance across Star Harbor. Now that Kyle knows your identity, we can’t risk another blind spot."

Miles gave a faint, grim nod. "Good. Because this isn’t over. Not by a long shot."

Monica smiled faintly—tired but loyal. "Don’t worry, boss. I’ve taken care of everything. You should get moving now."

Miles glanced at her. "You’re not coming?"

Monica shook her head. "Not this time. You go home. Give Uncle Daniel my best wishes—and tell my cute little cousins I’ll visit soon."

Miles chuckled softly. "Alright."

She gave a small nod and turned to leave. "Safe flight, brother."

The door closed behind her, and the silence returned.

Miles stood and looked out the wide window. The city skyline stretched far below, gleaming under the cloudy sky—Citadel City, the heart of ACE Group, the ancestral home of the Sterling family.

He had walked in as an outsider and left as the man who changed its future.

Despite not claiming ACE for himself, he still held access—through Silvey, through influence, through power that didn’t need a title.

The ACE Group.

The Reaper.

The Crimson Island.

The Ancient Clans.

The Sterling Enterprises.

He was a businessman, a trained mercenary , and an honorary army general. And that combination made him one of the most powerful men in the nation—quietly, invisibly.

He slipped his gloves on, his thoughts cold and sharp.

Kyle and Chester had escaped. Somehow.

Thea was still moving her pieces from the shadows.

The WEB’s motives were still unclear.

And the Old Commander’s secret—whatever deal he made all those years ago—still whispered at the back of Miles’s mind like an unsolved riddle.

There was still much to uncover. But one thing was certain.

Until the truth came to light, he would guard what mattered most—his family and those few he trusted.

Because no matter how many empires he built, or how many wars he won—

at the end of it all, he was still a man who had retired from the battlefield.

And this time, he intended to keep it that way.

Silverline City — Outskirts

Far from the skyline and noise, where the city faded into quiet fields and slow wind, there stood a small farm—weathered fences, patches of wild grass, and a faint smell of hay carried on the air.

An older man worked beside the stables, sleeves rolled up, a white vest clinging to his built frame. His muscles were still iron under the skin of age. The rhythmic sound of brushing filled the silence as he cleaned his horse—a tall, black stallion that gleamed even in the dull sunlight.

Overhead, a faint roar cut through the calm.

He didn’t look up immediately.

A helicopter descended onto the open field behind him, kicking up dust and straw. The blades spun down, slowing, until only the sharp echo of boots remained.

Three men in tactical uniforms stepped out, followed by two others dragging limp figures from the back—hands zip-tied, faces covered in black cloth, knees pressed into the dirt. The sun glared down on them mercilessly.

Still, the older man didn’t turn around. He simply wiped his hands with a towel, tied it over his shoulder, and continued feeding the horse.

Finally, a voice came from behind him. "Master, we brought them."

The older man struck a match, lighting his cigar with a slow breath. He turned, eyes narrowing through the rising smoke. His tone was sharp and disappointed.

"You will remain idiots," he said flatly. "I asked you to bring one, and you brought both."

One of the men hesitated, lowering his head. "Master, we had only one chance to grab them. They were together—we couldn’t risk losing one."

The older man exhaled a stream of smoke, shaking his head. "Such a headache." He walked closer, his boots crunching over dry gravel. "Let me see the little one’s face."

"Yes, master," the soldier said quickly, pulling away the black cover from the first captive.

Sunlight struck hard against the man’s face.

Kyle Sterling squinted, flinching, trying to shield his eyes with tied hands. His mouth was taped, his breathing rough.

The older man crouched a little, studying him closely—eyes sharp, almost amused. "Poor little Kyle Sterling," he said with a grim smile. "I finally see your face. You know what? You’re useless to me."

"Should I kill him, master?" one of the soldiers asked hesitantly.

The older man’s eyes turned cold. "Are you crazy?" He straightened up, flicking the ash from his cigar. "He was about to meet his rightful destiny, and you dragged him here like a sack of garbage. Send him back to Star Harbor. You’ve just given someone extra work for no reason."

The man froze, fear flickering across his face.

The older man’s tone grew darker, quieter. "And if the Grandmaster finds out that you’ve interfered with the Ghost’s path..." He stepped close enough for his shadow to swallow the man’s face. "He’ll send you all to hell himself."

The man swallowed hard, his voice trembling. "I’ll send him to Star Harbor, Master."

"Feed him something," the older man said without looking back. "He should arrive alive."

"Yes, Master."

The men dragged Kyle away, his muffled shouts useless under the tape. His boots left deep marks in the dirt as he struggled.

The older man watched him go, then turned his gaze to the second captive still kneeling. "Now," he said quietly, his tone shifting from irritated to amused, "dear old Chester... long time no see."

The guard pulled the black cover from Chester’s head and stripped the tape.

For a moment, Chester didn’t move. His head hung low, breath uneven. Then, slowly, he looked up.

And when his eyes met the older man’s face—scarred, smiling faintly through the haze of smoke—every drop of blood seemed to drain from his face.

His mouth opened slightly, but no sound came. His eyes widened in disbelief—like he was staring at a ghost that should’ve stayed buried decades ago.

Then he said with a low voice "J..?"

The cigar burned red between the older man’s fingers.

He smiled, almost kindly.

"Miss me?"

—To be continued.