Dakota leaned back in the high-backed leather chair of his command office, the stub of a Cuban cigar glowing faintly between his fingers. The smoke curled lazily toward the ceiling, forming shapes that vanished as quickly as they appeared. Below him, the carrier hummed with life: the engines vibrating through the steel floors, sailors moving like shadows, machinery groaning under the weight of warships, jets, and helicopters arrayed in perfect formation. Every man, every weapon, every vehicle was a piece of his empire. His eyes traced the deck outside, taking in the sleek black fuselages of attack helicopters, the thunderous presence of F-35s resting on catapults, the monstrous silhouette of a destroyer cutting through the water beside him. Each asset was meticulously maintained, ready for deployment at a moment’s notice.

He exhaled, smoke curling around his face like a halo. His fingers drummed against the armrest. Three years. Three years since Star had walked back from death itself, appearing like a ghost to drag him further down a path he already teetered on. Selling weapons, troops, vehicles, bombs, cocaine—he had expanded his business into an empire that spanned continents. Brazil, Mexico, China, Russia, Germany, Africa. The world had become his playground, but with Star pulling strings, it had become something darker, more dangerous. She had taught him military precision, the value of global leverage. Profit, defense, influence—they were one and the same.

Yet, even in his power, certain thoughts lingered. Jakari. The boy had survived. The thought had clawed at him ever since Star had delivered the proof—proof that he had assumed he would never see. Jakari, alive. A walking legacy. One man who could undo everything if allowed to grow unchecked. And Kylee… He had raised her briefly, then turned her over to his mother. It had been easier to push forward with his business, easier to convince himself that her safety didn’t matter. But Star had reminded him, subtly, of the consequences.

His eyes narrowed. A faint smile curved at the edges of his mouth as he crushed the cigar in the crystal ashtray. Some things were still pieces on the board, waiting for the right move. And tonight, the game changed again.

A knock on the office door broke his reverie.

“Enter,” he called without looking up.

A young sailor stepped inside, posture rigid. “Sir… he’s here.”

Dakota finally lifted his gaze. “Send him in,” he said calmly. His voice carried no hint of anticipation, but underneath, a quiet storm brewed.

The door opened wider. He stepped in: Azrathion.

The man who entered was unsettling in a way that words could barely capture. A black suit clung perfectly to a frame that was unnaturally tall, almost inhumanly precise. Long black hair cascaded over broad shoulders, moving like a shadow in the dim light of Dakota’s office. But it was the eyes that told the story—red, glowing faintly as though lit from some infernal source. Even from across the room, Dakota felt the temperature drop, a coldness that whispered of death and inevitability.

“Dakota,” the figure said, voice low, deliberate, each syllable weighted like steel.

“Azrathion,” Dakota replied, inclining his head slightly, a mixture of respect and caution in his tone. “You’re punctual as always.”

“I prefer efficiency,” Azrathion said, stepping closer. “Time wasted is life wasted.” His eyes flicked to the panoramic view of the fleet outside. “Impressive. Star’s investment has grown exponentially.”

Dakota chuckled softly. “Not Star’s investment. Mine. She found me, offered the tools. But it was my ingenuity, my empire. We both profit. She secures her position, I secure mine.”

Azrathion tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk crossing his sharp features. “And yet, there are pieces on the board you have yet to account for.”

Dakota’s eyes flickered for a moment. He took a slow drag from his cigar, exhaling smoke that framed his face like a mask. “Jakari. He’s alive. I know.”

The room fell silent. Azrathion’s gaze didn’t waver. “Proof?”

Dakota waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t need proof for what I already suspect. Star reminded me he exists. He is… unavoidable.”

Azrathion nodded once. “Then we move carefully. The plan is in motion. I wanted to see the men who will ensure its success.”

Dakota leaned back again, smiling faintly. “You’ll meet them soon. Let me show you something… extraordinary.”

Dakota didn’t speak immediately after Azrathion expressed his interest. Instead, he walked to the glass wall overlooking the carrier deck, hands clasped behind his back. The engines below thundered like restrained gods. These men weren’t just soldiers. They were history. Blood-written chapters of his rise.

“When the world still thought I was just another trafficker,” Dakota began, “these four helped me build something permanent.”

He tapped the glass once.

Mikhail “Ironhand” Petrov

“Mikhail came from the Arctic fleets,” Dakota said. “Russian naval spetsnaz. Ice water in his veins. He once held a flooded engine room for seventeen minutes while enemy divers tried to breach it. Killed three men underwater with a knife before the pressure crushed his lungs.”

A hologram shifted, showing Mikhail standing knee-deep in water, blood blooming around him like ink.

“He believes in loyalty,” Dakota continued. “Not flags. Not nations. Loyalty.”

Azrathion’s eyes flickered faintly redder. “Useful.”

Hideo “Silent Fang” Takahashi

“Hideo never spoke unless it mattered,” Dakota said. “Raised in coastal kill-programs that don’t officially exist. Maritime infiltration. Ghost boarding. Night assassinations.”

Another image appeared: a man kneeling on a ship’s mast at dawn, katana drawn, no sound but the wind.

“He killed six pirates without waking the seventh,” Dakota said calmly. “Then waited beside him until sunrise.”

Azrathion smiled faintly. “Patience is a rare virtue.”

Marcus “Reaper” Jones

“Marcus,” Dakota said, “was war before war knew it had started.”

The hologram showed a massive figure dragging wounded men through smoke and fire.

“He coordinated three simultaneous ship seizures under satellite blackout,” Dakota said. “Didn’t lose a single man. He doesn’t hesitate. Ever.”

Azrathion nodded once. Approval.

Luca “Ghost” Bianchi

“And Luca…” Dakota paused. “You never saw him unless he wanted you to.”

The image flickered: a sniper silhouette on a storm-lashed oil rig.

“He once eliminated a cartel fleet commander from 2.1 kilometers… while the target was moving… during a lightning storm.”

Azrathion’s voice was quiet. “They are already dead men. They just don’t know it yet.”

Dakota smiled. “Come meet them.”

The flight deck reeked of fuel, salt, and steel. Jets loomed like sleeping beasts. The four men stood together, helmets off, armor scarred from years of combat.

Marcus laughed first. “So this is Star’s new dog?”

Mikhail snorted. “Doesn’t look like much.”

Hideo only studied Azrathion, eyes narrowed.

Luca tilted his head. “Something’s off.”

Azrathion said nothing.

Dakota watched closely. These men had never knelt. Never bowed.

Azrathion stepped forward.

The wind stopped.

Not slowed—stopped.

The ocean froze mid-wave.

Azrathion extended his arm.

The moment his hand lifted, gravity broke.

Mikhail gasped first. His breath came out as black vapor. His veins burned through his skin like molten wire.

“What the—” Marcus started—

Their shadows detached from their feet.

Not stretched.

Not warped.

Detached.

They rose like living things, peeling upward, screaming silently.

Hideo dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his eyes as memories ripped out of him—every kill, every regret, every oath.

Luca tried to reach his rifle.

His fingers passed through it.

His soul was leaving first.

Dakota staggered back. “Azrathion—!”

Too late.

Their bodies convulsed violently as black armor grew from inside them, consuming flesh, bone, and blood. Their spines cracked and reformed. Their faces disappeared beneath hooded voids.

The weapons followed.

• Marcus’s M4 twisted into a double-bladed execution sword, humming with void energy.

• Hideo’s katana reshaped into a perfect obsidian blade, sharper than reality.

• Mikhail’s arms split, forming dual curved infernal scimitars.

• Luca’s sniper rifle collapsed inward, reborn as a long black spear, its tip dripping shadow.

They hit the deck simultaneously.

KNEELING.

The carrier alarms screamed briefly—then died.

Azrathion lowered his hand.

“Rise,” he said.

They obeyed.

Dakota couldn’t breathe.

“They’re… alive?”

Azrathion turned slightly. “No.”

Dakota forced his voice steady. “Tell me what you are.”

Azrathion’s eyes burned brighter.

“I am not death,” he said.

“I am what death sends… when it fails.”

The four figures bowed their heads.

“Death’s last resort,” Azrathion continued. “The blade beneath the world. The answer to names whispered too loudly.”

Dakota swallowed.

“Jakari,” he said finally. “I want him broken.”

Azrathion smiled—not wide, not cruel.

Certain.

“He will suffer,” Azrathion said. “But he will not die yet.”

That pause mattered.

Dakota didn’t ask why.

Azrathion raised his hand again.

The four warriors exploded into black crows, wings slicing the air like knives. Azrathion’s body burned into ash, rising upward like a reverse snowfall.

His voice echoed once more.

“Your wish is my command… Captain.”

Gone.

Dakota stood alone.

The deck was silent.

He lit another cigar with shaking fingers.

When he called Star, his voice was controlled—but strained.

“They’ve moved,” he said.

A pause.

“Good,” Star replied. “Then everything continues as planned.”

Dakota looked toward the horizon.

“Jakari is still alive.”

“Yes,” Star said softly. “For now.”

The line went dead.

By the time the carrier reached port in China, Dakota was already airborne—guards flanking him, rotors cutting the sky apart. Russia awaited. War awaited.

And somewhere beyond the clouds—

Four crows hunted.

And Death smiled.