Outcast Warlord: Banned & Bombarded

The freezing Cabernet Sauvignon dripped down the bridge of my nose, splattering onto the thick wool carpet of the Michelin-starred restaurant in San Francisco.

Victor carelessly slammed his wine glass onto the table, the crystal letting out a sharp, piercing clink. He grabbed a napkin and slowly, methodically wiped his knuckles.

"My hand slipped." He didn't offer a single glance of apology. His tone dripped with condescending disdain. "Though, this cheap synthetic shirt actually suits the trashy wine."

At the head of the table, Mrs. Stanton scoffed. Her silver cutlery scraped against the bone-china plate, producing a grating sound that set my teeth on edge.

"What an absolute disgrace." She shot me a side-glance, her eyes filled with thinly veiled disgust. "Olivia bringing you to an occasion like this drags our entire family's class through the mud."

The crimson liquid blinded my left eye.

In an instant, the elegant hum of the restaurant's cello seemed to fade away. Ringing in my ears were the piercing shrieks of air-raid sirens and the deafening roar of collapsing buildings.

The red in my vision morphed into a sea of blood drenching the war zone.

It was a nightmare I could never escape. In that battle, because of my blindly arrogant order for "artillery coverage," thousands of innocent civilians were swallowed by a sea of fire.

"What are you spacing out for?" Olivia's voice snapped me back to reality.

My wife—bound to me only by an obsolete marriage contract, now a rising star in Silicon Valley—was looking at me with furrowed brows. She didn't confront Victor. Instead, she merely slid a damp towel toward my hand.

"Go clean yourself up in the restroom." Her tone was laced with exhaustion and impatience. "Stop ruining everyone's mood."

I lowered my head, took the towel, and stood up in silence.

"Hold on, Eric." Victor called out to me. Pinching a check between two fingers, he tossed it onto the wine-stained table.

"How many measly dollars do you even make a month as a bottom-tier analyst at that trashy investment bank?" He leaned back in his chair, sizing me up. "Take this money and divorce Olivia. A guy like you isn't even fit to shine her shoes."

Mrs. Stanton instantly swapped her scowl for a warm smile as she looked at Victor. "Victor, there's no rush to discuss this today. But rest assured, the Stanton family only acknowledges you as our son-in-law."

I stared at the check, my fingers curling slightly inward.

Driven by my former tactical instincts, Victor's neck should have already been snapped into three pieces by now. It would only take me 0.5 seconds to permanently silence everyone at this table.

But I didn't move a muscle.

I clenched my jaw, forcefully suppressing the murderous instinct ingrained in my bones—the instinct of the "Commander."

I even bent down and used the towel to meticulously wipe away the spilled wine droplets from the table.

Watching my subservience, Victor let out a scoff. "Just like an obedient dog."

Olivia turned her head away and took a sip of her sparkling water, as if looking at me for a second longer would burn her eyes.

Clutching the wine-soaked towel, I turned and walked toward the restroom. My back was hunched; my footsteps were heavy.

Standing in front of the restroom mirror, I stared at the man in the reflection—his face stained with wine, his eyes utterly dim.

Once, I stood at the absolute pinnacle of power as the undisputed Supreme Commander of the war zone. Countless men bowed to my shadow. A single wave of my hand could dictate the life or death of an entire city.

But now, I call myself a piece of trash.

I had come to San Francisco under an alias to honor an obsolete marriage that existed only in name. I worked for a meager salary and endured the endless humiliations from Victor and the Stantons.

Not because I was powerless.

But because I deserved it.

I turned on the faucet, splashing the bone-chilling water onto my face.

The most terrifying thing in this world isn't death. It is surviving while carrying the blood of the innocent on your hands.

I looked at myself in the mirror, droplets of water sliding down my jawline.

Even if they trampled my dignity into the mud, even if every day felt like walking barefoot on blades, I had to endure.

This was the bitter fruit that the arrogant Commander had to swallow. For the sake of redemption.