Colonel Luther Grim, The Reaper, Ghost, Red Soldier, Red-Eyed Monster. He had many nicknames, all given to him without asking. From his first battle to his last, he was both feared and revered by enemies and allies alike.

He began his military service at eighteen and retired at twenty-three. Six years was all it took for him to rise from Private Second Class to Colonel. Had he remained, he would have soon become a Major General, a coveted position, a stepping stone to true power. But a year ago, he had chosen to walk away from it all.

Luther awoke to the cold seeping through the wooden walls of his cabin. He sat up, stretching his body, muscles coiled from habit rather than necessity. Even in retirement, he maintained his routine. The discipline ingrained in him during the war had never left.

"I need coffee," he muttered, his voice dry, rough from sleep. Living in the northern reaches of the Empire meant braving the cold year-round. Hydration was key.

As the rich aroma of coffee filled the air, he whistled absently, lost in thought. Some would call his post-war life dull, but he disagreed. Six years on the frontlines, leading missions where survival was a gamble, had been worse. No, not worse—hell. He recalled the faces of his soldiers, exhausted and hollow. Each day was a roll of the dice, uncertain of how many would make it through. The sounds of laughter had long since been drowned out by gunfire and screams.

Yet, a part of him had wanted more. And that had terrified him.

That was why he retired. While he wasn’t the best commander, he also wasn’t a monster willing to sacrifice his men for his own grim desires.

Taking his coffee to the balcony, he gazed at the endless snow of the forest. Civilization was far, and that was how he preferred it. Silence. Peace. No one to bother him.

Then, headlights cut through the early morning mist.

Luther's senses sharpened. He moved quickly, setting down his cup and reaching for his pistol. The rumble of engines grew louder as the vehicles came to a stop in front of his cabin.

He slipped out the back door, pressing himself against the cabin wall. His breath misted in the frigid air. He hadn't grabbed his coat in his haste, but the cold was secondary. His mind focused on what mattered—the approaching figures.

'Three? No, four.'

Four men. He was unprepared, but that wasn’t new.

Three sets of footsteps crunched against the snow as they moved toward his front door. Luther narrowed his eyes. The fourth man had stayed back—likely the most dangerous in this situation.

Three knocks. Then silence.

Luther steadied his breathing, tensing in preparation. But then—

"Colonel Luther Grim! Lieutenant General Oswell Kinsler has come to visit you. We assure you we mean no harm!"

A whisper followed. "Sir, are you sure we need to announce ourselves like this?"

Luther's grip on his pistol tightened. He stepped out from the shadows, leveling his weapon at the older man in a dark blue uniform. His hair, streaked with gray, peeked out from beneath his cap.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

The three officers flanking him reacted instantly, hands darting to their holsters to grab their guns and point them at Luther.

"How did you find me?" Luther’s voice was low, dangerous.

"Stand down," Oswell ordered his men, his gaze unwavering as he studied Luther. Black hair, a towering build, those sharp, crimson eyes. "So, the rumors are true. You look quite scary in person."

"But sir—" one officer protested, his gun still trained on Luther.

"That’s an order."

Reluctantly, the three officers lowered their weapons, though their posture remained tense.

"You haven’t answered my question." Luther’s gun stayed where it was—aimed directly at Oswell’s head.

Oswell chuckled. "The rumors also said you care little about rank or position. That all you see is ally or foe."

"You still haven’t answered."

Oswell raised his hands slightly, a gesture of peace. "Can we at least speak without a gun in my face? I truly mean no harm."

A long silence stretched between them before Luther finally lowered his weapon. He stepped onto the porch and opened the door. "Come in. Apologies for the lack of hospitality, Lieutenant General."

"It’s fine."

Inside, they settled at a wooden table. One of Oswell’s officers placed a briefcase in front of him, flipping it open to reveal a pristine black military uniform.

"Supreme Command has ordered me to assemble an organization," Oswell began. "One capable of operating both within and beyond the Empire’s borders independently. I recommended you as its head."

Luther’s eyes flicked to the uniform before meeting Oswell’s gaze. "Why me?"

"Because you are the only one who truly understands what war is. Not as a game of politics, not as an exercise in power, but as a brutal reality. You’ve lived it. You’ve shaped it. And whether you like it or not, it has shaped you."

Oswell leaned forward slightly. "That is exactly why we need you. The fear you inspire is a weapon unlike any other. You disregard rank and authority in pursuit of what must be done."

Luther exhaled, leaning back. "I’m retired. I thought I made that clear."

Oswell’s expression darkened. "Colonel, the war may be over, but the peace is fragile. The Empire is regaining its strength, but opportunists lurk in the shadows. If left unchecked, they will plunge us into another war—whether civil or foreign."

He tapped a finger against the table, emphasizing his next words. "The men you fought beside, the ones who survived, still look up to you. They remember your leadership, and your sacrifices. They know peace won’t last without someone like you watching over it. How long do you think it will be before the world forces you to pick up a gun again? The difference is, this time, you have the chance to act before it’s too late."

Luther’s eyes slid shut. Faces flashed through his mind. The men who had followed him through hell and back. Those who had died. Those who had survived scattered across the military, waiting for orders that never came.

He had thought he was done with war. But war, it seemed, was not done with him.

Oswell suddenly stood up. “Tomorrow at eight o’clock in the morning. If you change your mind, meet us at the train station. If you’re not there within ten minutes, I’ll assume you’ve declined.”

Before leaving, he turned back. “I truly wish to work with you, Colonel. I hope you see this as an opportunity.”

Luther sat there, his grip tightening around his cup. Finally, he stood, hastily packing his things. He had already made his decision.

After finishing his preparations, he wore his coat and hat. He ran outside and shouted, "Lieutenant General!"

Oswell turned around with curious eyes.

Luther saluted. "Your proposal. I accept."

Oswell chuckled. "Well then, shall we?"