The hall was colder than the mountain winds outside.

Twelve figures stood in a perfect line, black uniforms crisp against the cracked concrete floor. No tremors. No whispers. Only the rhythmic pulse of the overhead lights, casting long, skeletal shadows behind them.

Twelve survivors. Twelve weapons. Twelve remnants of something that had once been called childhood.

Above them, the great iron banners of the Jade Dragon Complex hung motionless.

OBEDIENCE. PURGE. VICTORY.

General Wang stood at the podium, a thin slip of a man in a perfectly tailored uniform, his hands clasped neatly behind his back.

His voice, when it came, was steady and sharp enough to cut glass.

"You are no longer children," he said. "You are no longer trainees. You are Agents of the People's Republic."

A faint ripple passed through the line – a tightening of shoulders, a locking of jaws.

"From this day forward," Wang continued, "you are recognized as full military operatives. Colonel rank. Code-designation: Agent."

One by one, the names rang out like hammer blows.

"Agent 49." "Agent 714." "Agent 888." "Agent 26." And so on, until all twelve bore their new shackles.

Agent.

A title polished to a mirror shine – meant to reflect pride.

Meant to bury everything else.

At the end of the ceremony, as the others filed out under the watchful eyes of armed guards, Ying lingered a moment beside Jian.

He turned to her – his posture straighter than she'd ever seen, pride flickering behind his iron-grey gaze.

"We made it," Jian said quietly.

Ying stared ahead at the empty podium, where General Wang's words still seemed to hang in the cold air.

"At what cost?" she whispered.

Jian said nothing.

There was nothing to say.

Outside the hall, the mountain winds howled against the razor-wire fences. But inside, the silence of obedience was absolute.

And so, the twelve marched out – black-clad ghosts wearing names not their own – into the waiting arms of a world that would use them until they bled out every last scrap of humanity.

Ying – Agent 714 – didn't look back.

There was nothing left to see.

…………………

The insurgent camp sprawled across the ruined outskirts of Beijing like a wounded animal – rusted shipping containers, half-collapsed barracks, chain-link fences rattling in the winter wind.

Through the blacked-out scope of her rifle, Agent 714 counted thirty-seven armed targets visible from their observation ridge. Another dozen moved in the shadows of the camp's skeletal warehouses. Probably more hidden underground.

Orders were simple.

Infiltrate. Eliminate leadership. Secure intelligence. No survivors.

Nothing they hadn't been bred for.

"Positions," murmured Agent 49 over comms – his voice clipped, calm.

The Agents moved like smoke.

Shadow – Agent 006 – slipped first, ghosting across the frostbitten ground, leaving no trace. Falcon – Agent 107 – nested atop a crumbling radio tower, her rifle angled toward the largest prefab bunker. Anchor – Agent 26 – and Lucky – Agent 888 – moved together at point, their steps synchronized by brutal years of training.

Agent 714 and Agent 49 circled wide, flanking the eastern perimeter where guards lounged near burn-barrels, rifles slung loose over their shoulders. Complacent. Human.

It would cost them.

At 02:43 Beijing Time, the first shot cracked through the cold.

Falcon's bullet took the camp's radio operator through the eye – dropping him mid-sentence.

Before the body hit the floor, Shadow severed the perimeter wires, and the Agents flooded in.

They were perfect.

Anchor breached the main warehouse door with a shaped charge, flooding the interior with smoke.

Lucky followed, low and fast, sweeping machine-gun fire across the stunned defenders. Whisper – Agent 44 – silenced the nearest sentries before alarms could ring.

Agent 714 moved through the chaos like a blade — striking with mechanical precision. A burst to the chest. A knife to the throat. A twist of the wrist to snap a spine.

By the time the insurgents realized they were under attack, half of them were already dead.

Agent 714 vaulted a low wall, caught a rifle butt mid-swing against her ribs, and answered with a snap kick that shattered the attacker's kneecap. He dropped, screaming, and she silenced him without hesitation.

No mercy. No hesitation. No room for error.

Within seven minutes, the camp's outer defences were collapsed. Within fifteen, the remaining insurgents were corralled into a killing field between the barracks and the fuel depot.

General Wang's doctrine played out exactly as it had been drilled: speed, violence, annihilation.

Ying caught a glimpse of Lucky in the chaos – dragging a wounded insurgent into cover for interrogation, his movements fluid despite the blood spattering his armour.

Anchor was at his side, providing cover – calm, precise, fearless.

For a moment – just a moment – Ying saw something unspoken pass between them.

A glance. A hand brushing a shoulder. A touch that lingered half a second too long.

And then the insurgent's head exploded under Falcon's overwatch round, and the moment was buried under fresh blood.

The Agents regrouped at the heart of the shattered camp – standing tall among the smoking ruins, bodies strewn around them like discarded dolls.

Mission accomplished.

Or so they thought.

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Ying's hand tightened around her weapon, a breath of unease ghosting down her spine.

It was too clean. Too easy.

Across the courtyard, Jian caught her eye – a flicker of warning flashing between them.

And then the mortar shells started to fall.

…………………

The first mortar struck the courtyard with a deafening crack, hurling bodies and broken stone into the air.

Ying hit the ground instinctively, rolling behind the smouldering wreckage of a transport truck. Shrapnel hissed past her cheek.

"Ambush!" Jian's voice snapped over the comms – sharper than gunfire.

The second shell landed closer – a blossom of fire and steel, tearing through the half-collapsed barracks where Hollow and Stone had taken cover. Ying caught a glimpse of Stone's silhouette crumpling into the dust, limbs twisted unnaturally.

The insurgents hadn't been routed.

They had been waiting.

Heavy-calibre machine guns lit up from hidden positions beyond the perimeter — stuttering streams of death pinning the Agents down.

Ying's mind raced.

Mortars. Machine guns. Entrenchments outside the camp.

This wasn't a retreat. It was a kill box.

Someone leaked the mission.

Through the smoke and blood, she saw Anchor – Agent 026 – pinned behind a shattered concrete pillar, her sidearm empty, scrambling to reload.

And she saw the sniper – glint of a scope – perched atop the distant water tower, sighting in.

Ying opened her mouth to scream a warning—

—and Lucky moved first.

Agent 888 broke cover without hesitation, sprinting across the open courtyard. Gunfire raked the ground around him. A round clipped his shoulder, spinning him sideways. He stumbled but didn't fall.

He threw himself into Anchor just as the sniper fired.

The round meant for her heart smashed into Lucky's back, punching through the black armour like paper.

Anchor gasped, catching his weight as he collapsed into her.

"No—" she choked, dragging him down behind the pillar, fumbling for a medkit with shaking hands.

"Move!" Ying screamed into the comms, hauling herself upright, returning fire at the sniper's nest.

The other Agents snapped into action.

Shadow sprinted low, throwing a smoke canister that bloomed into a thick grey curtain. Falcon zeroed in, her sniper round tearing through the enemy tower in a spray of shattered stone and flesh.

Whisper and Ash pulled Hollow's broken body to safety, dodging fire as bullets shredded the concrete around them.

It was chaos – raw and bloody and nothing like the drills.

Ying fought her way to Lucky and Anchor, heart pounding.

Anchor had her hands pressed to Lucky's bleeding back, trying to stem the torrent of blood. Tears streaked grime across her face – the first Ying had ever seen from her.

Lucky coughed, blood flecking his lips.

"Had to…" he rasped, voice barely audible over the screaming battle. "Had to save you."

Anchor shook her head violently, clutching him tighter.

"You idiot," she whispered, broken.

Lucky smiled – cracked, bloody – and lifted a trembling hand to brush her cheek. His fingers left a streak of red across her skin.

"You're my anchor," he said.

Then his eyes slid closed.

For one heart-wrenching second, Ying thought he was gone.

But a shallow breath fluttered against Anchor's chest. Faint. Struggling. Alive.

Barely.

"Evac!" Jian barked over the comms. "Now!"

Under the cover of smoke and suppression fire, the surviving Agents fell back – dragging the wounded, leaving the dead.

Ying and Anchor carried Lucky between them, his blood soaking into their black uniforms like a brand they could never wash away.

As they fled into the frozen Beijing night, Ying cast one last glance back at the burning camp.

And in the ashes, she saw the future of Jade Dragon laid bare.

No matter how strong they became, no matter how many enemies they crushed—

—they were still expendable.

Still property.

Still trapped.

…………………

The interrogation chamber was colder than the winter outside.

No windows. No clocks. Only the faint hum of hidden machinery behind the steel-panelled walls.

Agent 888 and Agent 026 stood at rigid attention in the centre of the room – bloodied, bandaged, and silent.

Across from them, seated behind a black desk polished to a mirror sheen, General Wang reviewed the mission footage on a holoscreen. His face was a mask carved from stone.

No flicker of emotion. No twitch of disapproval. Only the slow, methodical cataloguing of failure.

In the footage, Lucky's body blurred across the battlefield – throwing himself into Anchor's arms, taking the sniper's bullet without hesitation.

The image froze. Looped. Rewound. Played again.

Finally, Wang leaned back, folding his hands over his chest.

"Explain," he said simply.

The word hung there – clinical, cold, offering no hint of mercy.

Lucky swallowed, his throat thick with the effort.

"I acted to preserve mission integrity," he said, voice hoarse. "Agent 26 was a critical asset."

Wang's lips curved — not into a smile, but something colder. A razor-thin expression that might have once belonged to amusement in another life.

"Preserve mission integrity," Wang echoed, almost thoughtfully.

He tapped the screen once, freezing the image of 888's outstretched hand brushing Anchor's cheek.

"You were trained," Wang said, voice dropping to a dangerous softness, "to eliminate threats. To endure loss. To suppress attachment."

Lucky said nothing. His jaw locked, bloodless.

"And yet," Wang continued, rising slowly to his feet, "you chose – in the midst of a live operation – to prioritize a single operative over mission objectives. Over operational efficiency. Over protocol."

Anchor flinched as if struck but held her ground.

Wang circled them, hands clasped behind his back like a warden inspecting inmates.

"You were not bred to love," he said, voice low and cold. "You were not bred to belong to each other. You belong to the State. To me."

He stopped directly in front of Lucky – so close the iron tang of old blood and gunpowder mingled in the air between them.

"You are an asset," Wang said.

"Not a person."

Lucky's fists clenched at his sides. His bandages darkened with fresh blood.

Anchor spoke – voice barely a whisper.

"I take full responsibility."

Wang's gaze snapped to her – sharp as a blade drawn across a throat.

"No," he said. "You both will bear the cost."

He stepped back, pressing a button on the desk. A thin sheet of paper spat from a hidden printer slot – the only thing in the room that felt alive.

General Wang plucked it free and held it between two fingers like a death sentence.

"New orders," he said, almost casually. "Effective immediately."

He placed the orders face-up on the desk, letting them read it.

Mission Designation: Asset Recovery – Northern Siberia Objective: Secure experimental ordnance from Russian Federation military installation. Status: Zero Support. No Extraction.

Ying, watching through the one-way glass beside Jian, felt her stomach twist.

It was suicide. The mission parameters were a polite fiction. They were being sent to die.

Lucky read the orders in silence. His lips pressed into a thin, bloodless line.

Anchor stood straighter, eyes hollow.

General Wang watched them with the detached precision of a scientist recording the effects of poison.

"You may either succeed," he said, voice cutting through the room like frost, "or you may die."

He turned away from them – dismissing them with the smallest flick of his fingers.

"You are dismissed."

The door hissed open.

Lucky saluted – slow, deliberate.

Anchor followed, her hand trembling only slightly.

Neither spoke.

Neither bowed their heads.

They simply turned and marched out – two broken soldiers walking into the teeth of a death sentence.

Behind the glass, Ying's hands curled into fists so tight her knuckles blanched.

Beside her, Jian's face was carved from stone – unreadable, silent.

But Ying could feel it – the rage coiled under his skin, the fracture line running deeper through them all.

The lesson of Jade Dragon was simple.

No matter how strong they became, no matter how much blood they spilled, no matter how many victories they won— —they would never be free.

…………………

The wind howled across the airstrip, carrying knives of ice that cut through even the thick black fabric of their uniforms.

A single transport plane waited at the far end of the runway – a dull, hulking shape half-sunk into the frost, engines coughing pale smoke into the freezing sky.

Lucky and Anchor stood side by side, bags slung over their shoulders, helmets tucked under their arms. Their faces were bare against the cold, impassive. Perfect soldiers. Perfect sacrifices.

The rest of the Agents stood in a silent line along the tarmac, forbidden to approach, forbidden to speak.

Only their eyes moved – following Lucky and Anchor as they took slow, steady steps toward the waiting plane.

No ceremony. No farewell.

Just orders – and obedience.

Ying stood stiffly among them, her fists buried deep in her pockets, nails cutting into her palms.

She hated how straight they stood. She hated how proud they still looked. She hated how the system could carve out a soul, burn it hollow, and still demand a salute.

Anchor paused at the base of the ramp.

For one fragile heartbeat, she turned – her gaze sweeping over the line of silent black figures – searching.

Her eyes found Lucky's first – still, steady.

Then, somehow, they found Ying's.

For the first time since Anchor had pulled a dying boy from the culling rings all those years ago, Ying saw something raw flicker in her – not fear.

Not regret.

Choice.

Anchor dipped her head – not quite a nod, not quite a bow.

A vow.

Then she turned and climbed the ramp.

Lucky followed without hesitation.

The transport door slammed shut behind them with a hollow, final clang.

Engines roared.

Snow kicked up in violent spirals around the tarmac. The plane lumbered forward, gathering speed.

The black-clad line of Agents stood motionless as the transport lifted into the iron-grey sky and disappeared into the clouds.

No one spoke. No one moved.

The Siberian mission had no support team. No extraction window. No contingency plans.

And so the plane vanished into the blizzard – carrying two of their own into a grave they could not see.

Ying stood there long after the others had been dismissed, the cold gnawing at her bones.

Beside her, Jian lingered – silent, hands buried in his coat.

Finally, after a long time, he spoke.

"We're not free," he said, voice low, almost lost to the wind.

"We never were."

Ying didn't answer.

She watched the sky, empty now, and felt something burn inside her – slow, cold, inevitable.

Not yet, she thought.

But one day.

She would tear this place down to its blackened bones. For Lucky. For Anchor. For all of them.

One day.

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