107: Chapter 107 An Ordinary Story of a Soldier

The next morning, in the Beijing Suburbs, at a confidential interview site.

The room was empty, containing only a metal table and two chairs; the tabletop gleamed with a cold light.

He Jun, dressed in unmarked black combat fatigues, sat behind the table like a rock. There was nothing in front of him—no computer, no documents, just a clean, empty surface.

He didn't say a word, but that silence made the atmosphere in the sealed room heavy and oppressive.

"Creeeak—"

The door opened, and the first applicant walked in.

A burly white man over 1.9 meters tall entered, his broad shoulders and thick back stretching his combat fatigues to their limit. He had short blonde hair, blue eyes, and a faint scar on his chin that added a touch of ferocity.

His gait was steady, and the spacing and sound of each footfall were perfectly precise, revealing the marks of years of rigorous training.

The name on his resume was simple: Mark Smith, thirty-five years old, a former member of the United States Army Special Operations Command.

A more resounding title was—Delta Force.

Mark sat down opposite He Jun, his back straight as a ramrod, hands placed neatly on his knees—a posture deeply ingrained in a soldier's bones.

He Jun kept his eyes fixed on his face, not glancing at the resume on the table once since he had entered.

"Why would someone like you apply for a police job?" He Jun asked, his tone flat, devoid of any emotional fluctuation.

He intentionally didn't mention the one-million-dollar annual salary; it was a small test to see the other man's reaction.

Mark's facial muscles remained unmoved, showing no change in expression.

"Because I need money, sir," his voice was low and gravelly. "I need a job that allows me to survive and lets my daughter live like a human being."

"Wasn't your Delta Force severance pay enough?" He Jun pressed.

Mark's cheek muscles twitched, pulling into a twisted arc; it was less of a smile and more an expression of immense pain.

"Sir, I want to tell you a story."

He didn't wait for He Jun to nod before he started speaking on his own; his long-pent-up emotions needed an outlet.

"Five years ago, I was on an infiltration mission in the mountains of Afghanistan when our team was surrounded by over a hundred Taliban militants. To cover my teammates' retreat, I was hit in the right leg and stomach by shrapnel from an RPG."

"I was alone, with one gun and four magazines, and I held out for seven hours until reinforcements arrived."

"I survived, became a hero, and received medals. After returning home, my leg injury and internal issues never fully healed. The doctor said I needed at least two years of rest. But six months later, the command gave me a new mission: to capture a high-value target in Iraq."

He Jun said nothing, listening quietly. He knew the crucial part was coming.

"I reported that my physical condition was no longer suitable for high-intensity missions. But they said the country needed me. What the hell was I supposed to say? I couldn't refuse!"

"To avoid screwing up the operation, I had to rely on heavy doses of painkillers to push through. And the result? The moment I grabbed the target, my old injury flared up, everything went black, and in that split second, the target escaped from my grasp!"

Mark's fists slowly tightened on his knees, his knuckles protruding and the veins beneath his skin bulging.

"The mission failed. All the blame was pinned on me alone. Those sons of bitches at the court-martial said I 'abused drugs, leading to mission failure.' They took back my medals, stripped me of all my honors, and then gave me an 'honorable discharge'!"

"The so-called honor was that they didn't give me a single cent of severance pay!"

You could hear a pin drop in the room; only Mark's heavy breathing could be heard.

"I returned home to find that the country I had risked my life for had abandoned me, and my wife had abandoned me too. She cheated on me with a damn car salesman. When we divorced, the judge awarded her the house and the car, and I still have to pay an insanely high amount of child support every month."

Mark looked up abruptly, his blue eyes bloodshot, radiating despair and ferocity.

"I can't find a job! The hiring managers at those big companies see my resume and treat me like a war maniac, a monster! I've worked construction, carried cargo at the docks, and even worked as a bodyguard for the rich. But the money I earn isn't even enough to pay child support!"

"Last month, because I couldn't pay rent, my landlord threw me out like trash, and I slept under a bridge!"

He stared intently at He Jun, enunciating every word through gritted teeth.

"Sir, before I received your recruitment email, I was planning to rob a bank. Because that was the only way I could think of to get money fast and ensure my daughter's tuition for next month!"

"I bled for that country! I emptied two magazines and killed over thirty enemies with my own hands! But in the end, it was that country that forced me into becoming a criminal planning to rob a bank!"

"So, you ask why I came?" Mark's chest heaved violently. "Because you pay! And you promised me a new identity, a new country! I don't care if this country is in the desert or just a pile of network code! I just want respect, the dignity to live uprightly by relying on my own skills!"

The story was finished.

In the room, only the sound of his rapid, agitated breathing remained.

He Jun was silent for a long time.

Then, he stood up, walked around the table to Mark, and extended his hand.

"Welcome aboard, officer."

Mark's body instantly tensed, and he didn't move.

He looked at the hand He Jun had extended; this tough guy, who hadn't blinked in a hail of bullets, felt his eyes redden in an instant.

He stood up abruptly, grasped He Jun's hand, and a suppressed sob escaped his throat.

...

In the subsequent interviews, He Jun heard one "Mark Smith" story after another.

There was a former British SAS demolition expert who, due to severe PTSD, would mistake the sound of a champagne cork popping for gunfire. He couldn't integrate into society, was treated as a burden by his family, and was alienated by his friends.

There was a top sniper from the former Russian Alpha Group whose pension was cut again and again as the national economy declined, until he could barely afford even black bread.

There was also a former Israeli Mossad intelligence officer whose identity was exposed during a mission. To distance itself, the organization declared him a "traitor" and hunted him globally.

Every one of them had once been the sharpest weapon in their respective national machines.

They had fought and bled in the dark corners of the world for so-called national honor.

But when they grew old, wounded, or were no longer sharp enough, they were discarded at will, left to rust and rot in the corners.

Their homelands, after draining them of all their youth and blood, were too stingy to provide even the most basic security and decency.

And now, the Cyber Freedom Republic—a country that seemed like a joke to many around the world—had promised them a million-dollar annual salary and a chance to be reborn.

On the last page of the interview records, He Jun wrote down his judgment.

These people had no lingering attachment to the countries they once served; only deep-seated resentment remained in their hearts.

For them, so-called loyalty had long ago become a commodity with a price tag.

As long as they were given enough money and enough respect, they would become the most reliable and ferocious warriors in the world.

Beijing, late at night.

Lin Zhou's fingertips slid across the screen, flipping through the report He Jun had sent page by page.

Behind every name was a string of glorious battle records and a history of blood and tears marked by betrayal.

Medals and scars, honor and humiliation, were intertwined.

Through these words, he could imagine faces sharpened by life and betrayal.

He knew what kind of force he was about to possess.

A modern mercenary legion that fought only for money and contracts.

This force would become the sharpest and most dangerous sword in his hand.