The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire

Spain — A Few Years Ago

"Ghost, all enemies are eliminated."

The voice crackled over the comms, calm and sharp.

"Good work, Ghost," the base replied. "Gather your team and search for those women.

Ghost's tone was steady. "On it."

He switched channels. "Team, initiate the search."

Boots crunched over broken glass and debris as the operatives fanned out through the abandoned casino. The stench of gunpowder still hung in the air, mixing with cheap perfume and spilled alcohol. Bodies of traffickers lay sprawled across green felt tables and ruined slot machines, their blood seeping into the dust.

Ghost moved deeper inside, rifle held low but ready. His mask reflected the faint glow of broken neon lights.

"Ghost," Rea's voice came through. "There's a bunker down here—north side, ground floor."

Ghost turned sharply. "On my way. Team, heads up."

"Copy that."

The group converged at the far side of the casino where the floor tiles gave way to reinforced steel. Rea stood by a hatch with a heavy lock. She glanced back as Ghost approached.

"It's locked."

Ghost's voice was clipped. "Open it."

Two operators raised their rifles and fired. The lock shattered, sparks bouncing across the floor. Slowly, with a heavy creak, the bunker door lifted open. A stale, chemical-sweet air wafted out.

"Move," Ghost ordered.

They descended the narrow stairs, flashlights cutting through the dark.

"All clear," Rea confirmed once they swept the lower chamber

Then came the voice of one of the team members, uneasy. "We found them. The girls… all unconscious."

Rea frowned, taking a step forward. "This side—" She stopped mid-sentence, grabbing her head. Her knees buckled.

"Rea!" Ghost lunged, catching her before she hit the ground.

Her eyes rolled back, body limp.

Ghost pressed his comm. "Need medics. Rea is unconscious."

The base answered quickly, tension sharp in their tone. "What happened? Report the state of other operatives."

Ghost barked, "Team, status."

One by one, voices came back:

"All good."

"Nothing here."

"Clear."

"Nice and walking."

"What's the matter?"

Ghost's grip on Rea tightened. His tone dropped colder. "Base, something affected only Rea. Wait—" He turned sharply to the unconscious women in the bunker. "You said the girls are unconscious… no female operatives enter the bunker. I repeat, keep all female operatives out."

"Copy that."

The order was obeyed instantly.

Extraction units moved in, carefully lifting the girls one by one. Their breathing was shallow, but steady.

Ghost walked alongside the medics as they carried Rea to a stretcher. "What was that?" His voice was low, dangerous.

The medic, already checking vitals, answered quickly. "It's a drug. From early scans—it looks like something designed to affect women specifically. It attacks their consciousness, disorients the nervous system. Doesn't affect men at all."

Ghost's eyes narrowed behind the mask. "How can something like this exist?"

The medic shook his head. "It's made from rare compounds. Our analysts already flagged it—source points back to Japan. They've been chasing it for years. They call it… X2GEN."

Ghost stayed silent for a beat, jaw tight. His gloved fist clenched by his side.

"How's Rea?" he finally asked.

"They'll be fine," the medic assured, adjusting the oxygen mask over her face. "It doesn't leave permanent damage. They'll regain consciousness in a few hours. But…"

He trailed off, uneasy.

Ghost glanced at the rows of unconscious women being carried out, his voice flat but heavy. "But someone created this. And someone's still using it."

The team moved up the stairs, carrying the rescued victims out into the faint dawn.

And Ghost walked behind them, silent, already carving the name X2GEN into memory.

Present — Snow Women Clan Base, Operation Nightfall

After a full day of rest, the clan gathered at Lady Yurei's yard. Torches burned low, the air cold, a heavy silence stretching across the stone courtyard.

Yurei's eyes swept over them. "You will go by air. There's a safe landing point near the ruins of the Snow Clan's old base. Once you reach that point, the rest of you will standby. Only Miles will enter the place."

Her gaze fixed on him. Her tone sharpened like steel.

"The operation is simple. You will enter the base, find the crown, and take it out silently. No mess. And then come back."

Miles inclined his head slightly. "Alright, Lady Yurei."

She nodded once. "All the best."

The team boarded the chopper—six in total. Miles. Sayaka. And four of the clan's elite warriors, eyes steady, movements disciplined.

Inside the rattling cabin, Miles pulled out his sat phone, tapping out a few short coded messages. Sayaka noticed the faint glow and leaned toward him.

"What was that?" she asked softly.

Miles gave a small smile, tucking the device away. "Nothing." Then, his voice dropped lower, serious. "Let me tell you something. The drug Lady Yurei mentioned—it's called X2GEN. I recognised it instantly when I read your Master's letter. It targets women's consciousness. That's why she asked me."

Sayaka's brows pinched. "I didn't know its name. But yes… we've lost sisters to it before."

Miles leaned back against the seat. "So it's simple. You'll stay nearby. I'll handle the rest."

Sayaka straightened. "I will go with you."

He gave her a look. "You know the risk. Consciousness doesn't forgive."

"I am prepared," she said firmly. "If I feel myself faltering, even for a moment, I'll retreat. But I won't sit still while you walk into danger alone."

Miles exhaled through his nose, resigned. He reached into his jacket and handed her a small pen like thing.

Sayaka blinked at it, turning it in her hands. "What is this?"

"Narcane," Miles said. "Helps your breathing. I don't suggest you come, but if your mind starts to blur… I can't leave you helpless among barbarians."

Sayaka's lips pressed into a faint line, but her eyes softened. "Thanks."

The chopper descended. The skids hit the snow with a dull crunch. The cold bit hard, air thick with mist.

Sayaka rose, signaling the other women. "We'll move forward on foot."

"Yes, Senior Sayaka," they answered in unison.

Hours passed as they trekked over jagged terrain. Snow piled heavy. Their breaths came in clouds.

Finally, the ruins of the old Snow Clan base loomed in the distance, its walls half-buried in ice, firelight flickering faint at the gates. Two guards stood huddled in wool, rifles slung, a small fire between them.

One shifted uncomfortably, rubbing his hands together. "I heard the young master is out for business."

The other spat into the snow. "Yeah. More ruthless than the old man ever was. But business is booming under him."

The first guard glanced into the mist. His voice dropped. "What's that?"

Shapes stirred in the fog. A lone figure, hood pulled low, walking slowly toward them.

"Stop there! Who are you?" one barked, raising his gun.

The other leveled his rifle, finger taut on the trigger. "Don't move!"

But the man kept walking. His boots crushed snow with unhurried rhythm.

Then—silence.

The first guard blinked once, twice. His rifle slipped from his hands. His knees buckled. Blood spilled, dark and steaming against the white snow.

He hit the ground without a sound.

The second guard froze, throat tight. His eyes widened—too late.

The hooded figure walked past them, snow crunching softly underfoot.

Miles' voice was a whisper only the night could hear.

"Regrets? You don't deserve it."

And the flames by the gate sputtered, the mist swallowing the sound of death.

Miles moved like a shadow. Every step was deliberate, heel to toe, snow muffling his weight. The mist swallowed his outline as he slid along the walls, pausing each time a torchlight swayed too close. His breath was steady, shallow, like he'd trained it out of existence.

Two guards patrolled lazily near the courtyard. Miles dropped low, pressing into the stone, waiting for their footsteps to cross. When one broke off to warm his hands at a brazier, Miles shifted. A flash of steel, quick and silent—one throat cut, the body lowered gently to the ground. The second never saw the garrote slip around his neck. No scream, no noise—just the sound of boots dragging through snow as Miles moved them out of sight.

He slipped through a cracked door, into the dark of the ruined compound. Inside, the corridors smelled of damp stone and old iron. His night vision lens flickered faint green across the walls. Miles followed the faint echo of voices and the pattern of footsteps above, tracing where the guards gathered. Every time one came near, he vanished into alcoves, shadows folding over him.

A set of worn stairs led down. At the bottom, he found it: a chamber lined with rusted torches and an altar in the center. There, sealed inside a reinforced glass case, sat the Snow Clan's crown—ancient, silver-black, engraved with symbols dulled by centuries but still radiating pride.

Miles crouched, studying the placement. Two guards near the corner. One at the exit.

A broken piece of stone skidded across the floor—thrown by Miles. The sound drew two guards forward, muttering. Miles rose behind them, rifle stock striking one's skull, knife sliding across the other's throat before either could shout.

The third barely had time to blink. A suppressed shot ended him clean.

Miles stepped forward, crouched at the altar, and placed the case carefully into the reinforced bag slung over his shoulder. The weight was real. The crown was theirs again.

But as he turned to leave, his eyes caught something above—an old vent window on the far wall, barred but half-open.

"A vent?" Miles murmured under his breath. His gaze sharpened. "What's on the other side?"

Curiosity edged out caution. He adjusted the bag and traced the wall's edge, following where the vent might lead. Passing over the fresh bodies of guards, his boots left no sound.

Then he found it—a narrow underground passage, sealed by a steel door at the far end. The handle was rusted, but it gave way under his strength, groaning open.

And there—his eyes hardened.

Behind the bars of old prison cells, women sat in rags, their bodies frail, their eyes hollow. Skin bruised, hair matted, some too weak to lift their heads. The smell told enough of the story—dampness, starvation, neglect. Their silence was worse than screams.

Miles stood still, jaw tight. Memories of Spain, of the unconscious women in that bunker, flashed behind his eyes.

Then a sudden shout echoed from the compound above.

"We have intruders! She's a woman! Open the air vents!"

Miles exhaled slowly, shaking his head.

"That girl…" he muttered, already knowing who.