Chapter 40: The Hidden Dragon's File
Inside an ancient, grey-stone courtyard located deep within the Capital's restricted administrative district, a silence hung in the air that felt decades old. The yard was shielded from the city's cacophony by high, moss-covered walls and a canopy of ancient ginkgo trees.
An old man sat in a simple bamboo chair, a thick document held in his steady hands. It was the report Bernie Thorne Sr. had sent via the encrypted line—seven or eight pages of meticulous detail. It was a biography of Ethan McCain, spanning the twenty years of his life. The old man read it slowly, his eyes trailing over every word as if searching for a hidden code.
Behind him stood two stately middle-aged men, their postures as rigid as iron pillars.
The man in the chair looked to be of a similar age to Rupert Thorne, but the resemblance ended there. While Rupert's face was a map of deep wrinkles and he moved with the frailty of a dying man, this elder looked hale, hearty, and energized. His skin was clear, his eyes sharp, and he radiated a quiet power that suggested he could live for another twenty or thirty years without breaking a sweat.
This was Michael Frederick —the Director of the National Security Bureau's Division 2. He had commanded Division 2 for over thirty years, an unprecedented tenure. It wasn't that he was greedy for power or blocking the path of the youth; in fact, Henry had applied for retirement several times. Each time, the high command had denied it.
The reason was simple: Division 2 had not yet found a successor who could intimidate the entire unit, see the big picture, and plan with the cold, surgical precision required to maintain order between the country's local martial clans. As the primary department tasked with keeping domestic stability in the "Unseen World," Division 2's workload was arduous. They needed a lion to lead them, and Michael Frederick was the last of the old lions.
After ten minutes of silence, Michael finally finished the final page. He exhaled slowly, passing the folder to the two middle-aged men behind him. Then, he leaned back and stared up at the shifting leaves of the ginkgo trees, appearing to fall into a trance.
Internally, Michael was far from calm.
If the information Bernie Thorne Sr. had provided was accurate, the young man named Ethan McCain was someone terrifying. The word "monster " felt like an insult to a talent of this magnitude.
Would Bernie lie? It was almost impossible. Bernie was a man of honor who had sacrificed his health for the Bureau; his word was as good as gold. Therefore, Ethan's profile was real.
A twenty year-old university junior. A boy whose first two decades were uneventful, even miserable—marked by poverty and the relentless bullying of local crooks. Then, in the span of a few weeks, he suddenly displayed the power of a Pseudo-Body Refining Peak Master and began spending astronomical sums of money from unknown sources.
Normally, such a leap was a physical impossibility. A person could stumble into wealth instantly, but no one could stumble into the peak of martial refining.
Therefore, Henry mused, it must be exactly as Rupert analyzed. The boy had a mentor—a powerhouse who had secretly taught him from an early age. It was likely the master's decision to keep Ethan's strength suppressed, forcing him to endure twenty-one years of humiliation to temper his heart and will. Bernie had confirmed this "vibe" during their meeting.
What was rare, however, was the boy's nature. Michael had seen many "geniuses" turn twisted and vengeful after a miserable childhood. But Ethan McCain was different. He was right-minded. He sought justice against his bullies, but he had a clear bottom line. He repaid kindness with staggering generosity. He wasn't a monster; he was a sovereign in the making.
This meant his mentor was likely a righteous person who had a specific reason for allowing Ethan to bear the pain of his youth. The country welcomed such strong, right-minded talents with clean backgrounds.
"But," Michael whispered to the wind, "letting a talent like this join Division 2... it's like putting a shark in a goldfish pond."
If such a talent joined Henry's division, it would only make him slack. He would be the strongest member from day one. He would lose his motivation while surrounded by veterans who were decades older but significantly weaker. At twenty, Ethan was in his prime. To truly cultivate him, he needed to be sent where the "psychos" lived.
Michael wasn't thinking about how to bolster his own team's metrics. He was thinking about the country's future weapon.
The two middle-aged men behind him finally finished reading.
"Director, if this information is true, we should add Ethan McCain to our roster as soon as possible!" the man on the left urged.
"Indeed!" the second man added. "We cannot afford to miss a talent like this. The Wraith Wing is already sniffing around for freelancers."
Michael leaned back, his eyes closed. "Add him to the roster? And where exactly would you two place him?"
"He must be in my First Unit," the first man said firmly. "I'm sure I can train him to be the ultimate operative!"
"Train him? You?" the second man scoffed. "He's already a peak master. What are you going to teach him? He belongs in my Second Unit. You already have more members than I do, York!"
"My unit handles the most high-risk domestic cases," York countered. "He needs the field experience only I can provide!"
The two unit leaders—the most feared men in the province—started bickering like schoolboys over a prize. Division 2 had four units in total; the other two were currently deep undercover on missions elsewhere.
"Are you two punks trying to piss me off?" Michael 's voice wasn't loud, but it cut through their arguing like a razor.
The two unit leaders froze.
"I still can't retire because you two are constantly scheming for your own benefits," Michael scolded, opening one eye to glare at them. "All my old comrades are out there enjoying tea and fishing every day, and I'm the only one stuck here listening to you two squabble over a new recruit."
"Sir, you're still young! You have decades left in you!" York said quickly, trying to flatter him.
"Yes, yes! We're simply incapable of taking your place yet!" the second leader added.
"Tell me," Michael said, ignoring the flattery. "Ethan is already a Pseudo-Body Refining Peak Master. What progress can you expect him to make if he joins your units? He'd be bored within a week."
"Well... Ethan might have the strength, but he's only twenty. He's a student," York argued. "He lacks practical experience. We can provide the blood and the fire he needs to sharpen that strength."
"Yes! We can give him the grind!"
They had reached a temporary truce, realizing that if they didn't present a united front, Michael might not let them have Ethan at all. They could hear the shift in their leader's tone—he was looking past Division 2.
"F*ck off," Michael grunted. "Can't you two grow up? I told you to look at the big picture. To the NSB, the big picture is national stability and the cultivation of a 'Global Sovereign.' I've decided not to put him in Division 2. I am going to refer Ethan McCain to Division 1 as a candidate for the Special Elite Reserve."
York and his colleague shared a look of pure defeat. They both sighed.
I knew it, they thought.
After reading the file, they knew Ethan was too good for them to keep. There was no way a provincial division could hold a twenty-year-old peak master. At best, they could have offered him a bit of tactical polish, but they couldn't help him progress to the next rank.
Ethan McCain could only grow by joining the "Ghost Division"—Division 1—where he would be spurred on by the "psychos" and geniuses who defended the nation from the shadows of the Capital.
"Prepare the invitation," Henry commanded, standing up from his bamboo chair. His frame was suddenly imposing, the energy of a master radiating from him. "Tell the South River branch that I will personally oversee the initial vetting. I want to see if this boy's 'aura' matches Bernie's description."
"Yes, sir!" the two unit leaders responded in unison, their voices echoing in the quiet courtyard.
As they hurried away to execute the orders, Michael Frederick looked at the ginkgo leaves falling slowly to the ground. A twenty year-old peak master with trillions in his pocket and a mysterious mentor at his back.
"The pond of South River is about to overflow," Henry whispered. "I hope the boy is ready to swim in the ocean."