Chapter 18 – Calm Before the Storm
The night in the House of Freedom hung like a boulder on the city's chest. Inside, the fire twisted in its stone pit, casting dancing shadows over faces—tense, fearful, uncertain. The light patter of rain on the worn-out roof sounded like a long whisper of warning.
Adam sat on the room's only wooden bench, staring at the weathered map before him. Thin lines etched by a trembling hand in a time of hunger now looked like pulsing veins filled with danger.
He unfolded a letter sent by Rick, written in elegant, meticulous handwriting. He read the names again:
> "Jarro – violent street fighter, leader of the assault units.
Kent – skilled sniper, patient, deadly from a distance.
Lota – investigation officer, sharp at dismantling organizations."
These weren't just soldiers. The Navy had picked them carefully—like surgical tools meant to cut his veins.
He looked at his men scattered at the room's edges. Tongues of flame revealed tough faces and anxious ones. He nodded to Rick, the scribe. Rick stood near the door, notebook under his arm, his small eyes gleaming with concern. Behind him stood his young heir, Riko, sitting close to the wall, eyes following the lines on the map like a child tracing imaginary footsteps in mud. He clutched his own notebook like a small treasure, drawing with a trembling hand the sea lines, ports, and islands—ones only someone who lived them would know.
Adam watched him silently, then murmured to himself:
> "I brought him this for a reason... the blind navigator who knows the sea by its salty scent and the sound of wind in sails. I wanted Riko to understand that vision isn't everything—and that one who learns from a man who can't see... might one day see more than anyone else."
He added, in a voice no one heard:
> "He doesn't know I watch him every night... how he redraws the map from memory, how he transfers wind paths as if they're secrets... Riko doesn't just want to write. He wants to command the ship someday. And I won't stop him."
Adam turned to Organ, the massive man with curly black hair and a wide scar on his cheek. He sat on an old crate, staring at the fire. Not a planner or strategist, but a fighter who knew how to raise fighters.
Adam remembered how he first found him—in a filthy fighting pit, taking down three men one by one. Back then, he was just a feral stray dog, trusting no one. Adam offered him safety in exchange for loyalty. Organ accepted because he knew: a leash with meaning is better than freedom that kills its owner.
Now Organ trained new recruits in hand-to-hand combat, boxing, knife fights—breaking their pride in the ring. He was solid. But Adam noticed him watching one student in particular: a boy named Bram—spiky red hair, the eyes of a wolf in a young man.
Adam glanced at Bram, standing near Organ. Silent, but burning inside—fists clenched tight, veins bulging. He wasn't easy to tame. Adam himself caught him during a dockside gang brawl—found him beating the rival gang leader to a bloody pulp.
Adam didn't scold him. He only said:
> "I liked that last punch. But it was pointless. Come, I'll give you a target worthy of your strength."
That's how Bram became one of Organ's deadliest trainees. But he was still learning to fight with his mind—not just rage.
In the far corner sat Serena, the woman with long black hair, quiet and mysterious, wearing a loose black hoodie, eyes scanning everything. She was in charge of smuggling, deals, and communications.
Adam didn't trust her at first. He saw her bargaining with smugglers to secure a cut of the profits. He blocked her economically, cut off her routes—then offered his own system: a market under his protection, guaranteed deals, in exchange for real loyalty.
She accepted initially because he seemed profitable. But over time, she began to see something more.
Next to her sat her young heir Liana, a girl with dark reddish-brown hair and focused eyes, holding a small notebook where she drew market maps and trader names. Serena was quietly teaching her how to read faces, negotiate, spread rumors and resell them, and how to hide intent behind an innocent smile.
Adam looked at Liana. She lifted her head, gathering her courage, but didn't speak. He gave a short nod—like acknowledging her as one of the new family he was building.
Maia peeked from the kitchen, excitedly wiping her hands on a broth-stained apron. Her long green hair flowed over her shoulders, her childish face full of life despite the chaos. She was the cook—but more than that. Adam didn't choose her for just her cooking. She had a rare sense of taste—able to distinguish similar spices and conflicting herbs.
So, he brought her an old herbalist and a street doctor from the back alleys—to teach her how to distinguish between toxic and healing herbs, how to read the shape of a leaf or the groove of a root. He once told her:
> "Someone who can craft a complex recipe... will one day know how to make a layered remedy."
She started recording notes in a small notebook, linking the taste of each herb to its function, treating minor wounds in the kitchen and observing healing the same way she watched meat tenderize.
Adam observed her in silence. He knew she'd be the household's medical hand—able to feed and to heal—and one day, maybe... to poison carefully.
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Adam didn't declare today: "If you can't handle this, leave." He didn't yell. He simply looked at their faces one by one, thinking:
> "He who breaks his vow, I'll break him in secret. He who betrays, I'll dig his grave with my own hands. The rest... I'll make them men and women worthy of survival."
His mind reviewed the plan. He knew those three sent by the Navy weren't fools. Jarro, leading the strike units, was like Organ—but more dangerous, more experienced. Adam knew—this was the real opponent. This is who he'd face—and crush.
Kent, the sniper, was a danger to his men from afar. Lota, the snake-smart officer, could maneuver troops like chess pieces.
Adam exhaled slowly and tapped his fingers—those fingers that looked human but had the hardness of steel. No visible scars, but those who knew him... knew the price he paid to have them.
He nodded for Rick to approach, took the map from him, and drew attack routes, exits, and where he'd plant his eyes.
He spoke in a harsh calm:
> "There's no room for chance tonight. We don't want war... but if it's forced on us—they'll learn: iron may rust, but willpower never dies."
Outside, the cold deepened. The wind howled at the door as if asking permission to enter. Inside, the fire still burned, lighting up faces that now understood—this night would be different.
Adam finally raised his head, looking at them all. No shouting. No slogans. Just one heavy gaze.
> "Tonight, those who survive w
ill become a part of me.
And those who betray… won't find a grave."
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End of Chapter 18