"Long live Hydra!"
The shout echoed through the underground chamber. More than a dozen guards responded in unison — reflexively, as if muscle memory had taken over.
On the other side, the three mutants stood frozen.
Hydra?
They'd heard the term—maybe in passing—but to them, it was some relic from history, something extinct. Even S.H.I.E.L.D., Hydra's old nemesis, believed the organization had vanished decades ago. As for these three mutants — outcasts, raised at the margins of human society — they'd never received a traditional education, let alone one that included long-dead fascist shadow groups.
But one of them — the same sharp-eyed woman who'd sensed Daniel's presence earlier — suddenly stiffened, her eyes locking with his.
And then, in a blink, she collapsed.
Her knees gave out, her head hit the floor with a dull thud, and she was unconscious.
Daniel had only looked at her.
His gaze swept over the rest of the room — now dead silent.
The guards who'd shouted moments ago were petrified. They hadn't expected the mutant to drop like dominoes — and they certainly didn't expect what came next.
Their instincts screamed warning. They raised their rifles — and aimed them at Daniel.
These weren't the veterans of WWII. Those men were either long dead or scattered across the world, managing strategic holdings for Norfolk Energy. The ones in the base now were their descendants — second generation Hydra, born into loyalty, trained like soldiers, and tagged for obedience.
Even so, seeing what Daniel just did… shook them.
Decades ago, Daniel hadn't wanted to tie himself to Hydra too tightly. But back then — right after the fall of the Third Reich — there'd been no choice. Hydra was a way to preserve belief, maintain order. Without it, the survivors hiding in this icy outpost would have fallen apart.
So, he'd allowed everyone to join Hydra — temporarily. Later, he planned to build something new from within it. Something separate.
That time never came.
He'd vanished before it could happen.
Now, "Long live Hydra" was more than a chant. These people had grown up with it. They'd learned how to survive under its ideology, using its structure to hold themselves together in this forgotten pocket of the world.
And Daniel's salute...
His posture, the commanding gesture — it marked him as higher-ranked than any of them.
But not all Hydras followed the same figure. Not even in the old days. Red Skull had been powerful, leading on behalf of the Reich's Supreme Commander, but not everyone followed him blindly. When he went rogue, distorted and disfigured by serum, many abandoned him. Loyalty splintered.
Hydra had always been made of many heads.
Now, all those heads had gone underground. Fragmented. Secret. Many didn't know the others even existed anymore.
Zola might still be searching for old comrades, using buried networks to reach deep into Hydra's remains... but even he would struggle to find trust. After all, these days, every surviving Hydra feared being betrayed by the others.
So, when Daniel appeared now, not everyone welcomed that appearance with open arms.
Some froze and pointed their weapons.
And Daniel — watching them hesitate — felt the sting of it. The discipline had faded. The iron loyalty cracked.
He raised one hand and made another symbol, reaffirming his status.
Then he drew out a card — black, metallic, and sharp-edged — and flicked it forward. It landed in Kilner's palm.
The younger soldier blinked, confused, and passed it to another. Then whispered in that man's ear.
A moment later, eyes widened in disbelief.
Daniel stood calm, letting recognition settle.
He wore the black officer's uniform of Hydra. At first, most of them hadn't truly connected the dots. But now they did.
He had spoken the old allegiance. Shown the original command seal. And that card — a security clearance badge signed in the commanding hand — was real.
In this base, even after decades, his authority still existed across every layer.
That card came not from fabrication — but was his own spare, kept locked in his old quarters. Signed with the same name he used before disappearing.
Colonel van der Berg.
The title carried weight.
Though the empire that had once empowered Hydra was long gone, in this isolated underground fortress — it still mattered.
Long ago, only a handful had been permitted to move freely in this base. Emergency isolation had made strict hierarchy essential. But now? Things had loosened. Most people came and went on rotation, living between the Arctic and the mainland. Even Longyearbyen was overrun by their people. Infiltrated top to bottom.
Half a year earlier, Daniel had sent Bakshi in silently. His family — old Hydra blood — predated even the war's end. Using Daniel's tokens and reputation, he had quietly reconnected contact lines and identified loyal insiders. So when Daniel walked inside this time, a few people already suspected something.
They just didn't know when he'd arrive.
Now that he had — the base was his again.
But peace didn't last long.
A massive wind blade — over a meter in length — screamed through the air and slammed into Daniel's barrier in the blink of an eye.
SCREEE—!
The room filled with the piercing sound of metal grinding against magical force. Ears rang. The unbearable shriek forced people to double over, hands clutched tight to their skulls.
And yet, Daniel didn't move.
The wind blade spun like a buzzsaw, shrieking as it tried to drill through his barrier. It failed.
One tap — just a flick of his dagger forward.
A sliver of electricity zipped out. It touched the spinning blade — and unraveled it. The deadly gust scattered into harmless breeze.
Daniel turned his head slightly and ordered, "Retreat."
The base guards fell back without hesitation. From the control room came a man — heavy boots, black leather coat, and military decorations. Bearded and hardened by years.
He scowled at Daniel but hadn't spoken yet.
Another wind blade took shape.
But Daniel was faster.
The moment wind formed in the air, he ducked low — body surging across the ground like a shadow. Like a serpent, he skimmed the floor, coming up directly in front of the attacker.
This was no ordinary mutant. His wind power wasn't just flashy — it was controlled, refined, deadly. The earlier attack had been a warning. What followed would've been a death sentence for anyone else.
Daniel didn't wait.
His dagger glinted — a pure black arc.
Before the strike landed, a cyclone burst out of nowhere. Wind crashed into Daniel's body to throw him back.
But Daniel didn't flinch.
Another arc of magic — razor-thin and bright — snuffed the wind out completely.
"Impossible..." the mutant muttered, stunned.
Too slow.
The dagger slashed his throat.
But Daniel didn't let it end.
He stepped forward, and with a flick of his fingers, summoned a thread of light — healing magic — that instantly closed the man's wound. Just as the man's eyes fluttered open again, Daniel kicked the back of his head, knocking him out.
Daniel strode past the unconscious body and entered the control room. Inside, a frail old man lay in a hospital bed.
Crazy white hair, sunken cheeks, thin limbs barely kept warm under thick wool blankets. Breathing shallow. Skin pale.
Daniel stopped and his voice softened, "Didier..."
It had been decades.
And yet, seeing the old guard — his most loyal bodyguard, once full of life and strength — stirred every memory in Daniel's mind.
A flicker of grief passed through his otherwise cold eyes.