Please Save Me Daddy

Valemont Grand International Airport The roar of the landing engines still echoed across the vast concrete expanse long after the military aircraft had touched down. Its massive wheels shrieked against the runway in protest before finally surrendering to stillness, the entire aircraft settling like a sleeping beast at Valemont Grand International Airport. For a brief moment, there was silence. Then everything changed at once. The sealed hangar gates burst open, and the stillness was replaced by the synchronized thunder of boots striking the ground. Thousands of soldiers moved as one unified force, forming perfect lines with drilled precision that spoke of years of brutal discipline. Within seconds, the chaos of arrival transformed into a structured corridor stretching from the runway all the way toward the airport terminal—wide, clear, and untouched. No civilian stood within a hundred meters of it. No one even dared to approach. The air itself felt restricted, as though the atmosphere had been ordered to hold its breath. Rifles were raised in ceremonial posture. Soldiers stood rigid, shoulders locked, chins lifted, eyes forward without the slightest tremor. Sweat rolled down their temples under the unforgiving heat, but not a single hand moved to wipe it away. Discipline had replaced discomfort. Along the far edge of the runway, armored military vehicles remained stationed like dormant giants—silent, heavy, and waiting. Their engines were off, but their presence alone suggested destruction ready to awaken at a command. And beyond them stood the highest figures of authority in the entire region. Generals from multiple battalions formed an unbroken line of command, their expressions carved from stone. Seasoned men who had survived wars and coups stood without speaking, without shifting, as if even a whisper might be considered disrespect. Among them was Mayor Adrian Cross, the influential leader of Valemont City himself. Yet even he did not speak. Not once did he question why he had been summoned. Because everyone present understood one truth too clearly to ignore. Whoever was arriving… was not someone the world treated casually. A young soldier near the rear of the formation swallowed hard, adjusting the tight strap of his rifle as his arms began to ache from hours of immobility under the blazing sun. His patience finally cracked, and he leaned slightly toward the man beside him without breaking formation. “Hey…” he whispered carefully, voice low enough to be swallowed by the wind. “Who exactly are we waiting for? I’ve never seen this kind of formation before. Not even for heads of state.” The soldier beside him did not turn his head. His gaze remained locked forward, but his reply came instantly, controlled and tense. “You really haven’t heard?” The first soldier frowned slightly. “Heard what? Look around us. The mayor is standing like a statue. Every single general in the region is here. This feels less like a welcome and more like the arrival of a war god.” A slow breath escaped the second soldier, almost reluctant. “Major General Kael Varric.” The name hit the air like a shockwave. The first soldier blinked, confusion quickly turning into disbelief. “Kael Varric? The youngest Major General in the entire federation? I thought that was just p********a. They said he took command in his mid-twenties… that can’t be real. He’s barely older than some of us.” A faint tension tightened the second soldier’s jaw. “Watch your words.” The warning alone carried enough weight to silence the doubt. The first soldier stiffened. “I didn’t mean— I just thought maybe he had connections, or—” “Connections?” the second soldier cut in sharply, still staring ahead. “That man doesn’t survive on connections. He survives on battlefields most soldiers would never return from.” A brief pause followed, heavy and suffocating. Then the second soldier continued, his voice dropping even lower, almost reverent. “They call him the Iron Viper.” The first soldier’s expression changed immediately. “I’ve heard that name…” “Everyone has,” came the reply. “But few understand what it means.” A gust of wind swept across the runway, rattling the distant flags that had been mounted for the occasion. Even they seemed restless, as if reacting to something approaching beyond sight. The second soldier finally turned his eyes slightly, just enough to glance at his comrade. “You remember the Blackshadow Network?” The color drained from the first soldier’s face at once. “The terrorist organization… the one that controlled half of Valemont’s underground routes for years?” The second soldier nodded once. “They didn’t just control it,” he said quietly. “They turned this city into a cage of fear. Five years of assassinations, bombings, disappearances… no one could stop them. Not intelligence units, not special forces, not even foreign intervention teams.” A pause. Then, colder still: “Until Kael Varric was deployed.” Silence swallowed the line of soldiers as if the world itself had paused to listen. The second soldier’s voice hardened. “In less than six months… he erased them completely.” The first soldier let out a short, uncertain laugh, though it lacked any real confidence. “That sounds impossible.” The second soldier did not react to the doubt. His expression remained firm, his voice steady as iron. “Not with an army,” he said slowly. “With three men.” The first soldier blinked, clearly thrown off balance. “Three?” “Captain Ryker Vaughn,” the soldier continued. “Sharpshooter Elias Crow… and strategist Adrian Locke. Together with him, that makes four.” The words hung in the air, heavy and unreal, like a story too extreme to belong to the real world. “They infiltrated Nightfall Syndicate’s central stronghold—ten thousand armed operatives—without triggering a single alarm,” the second soldier went on. “By the time anyone understood what was happening, their leader had already disappeared… and the entire compound was reduced to ash.” The first soldier’s grip tightened around his rifle. His palms had grown damp without him noticing. “I’ve also heard stories,” the second soldier added, his tone lowering into something colder, darker. “That he once neutralized five enhanced war machines in a single strike. That no one who has ever faced him directly on the battlefield has lived long enough to speak about it.” A brief pause followed. “And if the Iron Viper marks you…” he finished quietly, “…your ending is already written.” The first soldier swallowed hard, the fear in his chest no longer something he could hide. “…I really hope those stories are exaggerated.” This time, the second soldier gave no response. Instead, his entire posture snapped into sharper alignment. Because the aircraft door had begun to open. A faint mechanical hiss echoed across the runway as the heavy door slowly descended, cutting through the suffocating tension like a blade. “I can’t wait to see him,” the first soldier whispered, his voice now filled with a mix of awe and dread. “The Iron Viper of Valemont…” — Far from the blinding spotlight of the ceremonial corridor, hidden beyond the reach of cameras and attention, the second gate of Valemont Grand International Airport remained quiet. Almost forgotten. From there, a lone man stepped into view. He wore a perfectly tailored obsidian suit that clung to his frame with quiet authority. In one hand, he carried a black leather briefcase. His polished shoes struck the ground in a steady rhythm—measured, deliberate, each step echoing with calm control. There was nothing flashy about him. Yet everything about him commanded attention. Waiting by the curb was a vintage black Imperial Sovereign sedan, its engine humming softly. Standing beside it was Colonel Damien Cross, his posture flawless, his gaze sharp enough to cut steel. The moment the man approached, Damien snapped into a crisp salute. “Sir.” The response came immediately, deep and commanding, leaving no room for hesitation. “At ease, Damien.” The colonel lowered his hand at once and stepped forward, opening the rear door with precision. The man entered smoothly, settling into the leather seat before the door closed with a soft but final click. Inside the car, silence reigned for a heartbeat. Then those cold, piercing eyes shifted toward Damien. “Who leaked my arrival?” Damien’s grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly as he glanced at the rearview mirror. “Director Victor Hale, sir.” “…Hale.” The name rolled slowly off his tongue, not as a question, but as a quiet promise. Leaning back into the seat, his voice dropped further, carrying a sharper edge. “Have you confirmed Selene’s location?” Damien’s jaw clenched. “No, sir. Her phone has been inactive since yesterday. The last signal traced back to the abandoned sector near the old steel district… but when our men searched the area, there was nothing.” Silence fell again. The man’s fingers slipped into his pocket, pulling out his phone. The screen lit up, revealing a series of messages he had once ignored—messages that now felt heavier than any battlefield burden he had ever carried. The first message opened. (Daddy… please come save us. Mommy and I need you. The doctor said I might not have much time…) His gaze darkened. At first, he had dismissed it. A wrong number. A scam. A mistake. But the messages had not stopped. The second message followed. (Why aren’t you replying, Daddy? Is it true you don’t care about us? Are you going to leave us like you did five years ago? Please… you’re the only one Mommy and I have.) His grip on the phone tightened. Then came the third. (Daddy… the poison has spread. The doctor said if it reaches my heart, I won’t survive. The Ashford family did this. They said Mommy and I shouldn’t exist. If I’m going to die… I just want to see you once.) A faint tremor passed through his chest—so subtle, yet so unfamiliar. He remembered that day clearly. That was the same day he had torn through the Nightfall Syndicate’s headquarters. And still… she had been waiting for him. Slowly, he scrolled further. His own reply appeared. (I don’t know if I’m your father. But if you truly need help, tell me where you are. I’ll send someone.) The answer had come instantly. (No… you are my father. Mommy told me everything. You even gave me a name… Lyra.) The world seemed to pause. Lyra. That name struck deeper than any blade ever could. It was not a name he used lightly. It was the name of the only woman who had ever shown him kindness when the world had abandoned him. And he had spoken it… only once. Memories surged forward without restraint. Years ago, his family had been destroyed over a debt that was never meant to be repaid. Blood had stained the ground. Screams had filled the night. And he had been taken—not as a survivor, but as property. The Ashford family had turned his life into a prison. Endless labor. Endless humiliation. Yet within that darkness, there had been one exception. Isabella Ashford. The only person who had treated him like a human being. Five years ago, everything had changed. Forced into an engagement with a powerful heir, Isabella had made a desperate decision. She had chosen him—not out of desire, but out of rebellion. A single act that shattered the chains forced upon her. But that act had consequences. Deadly ones. The Ashford family had sentenced him to death. Locked away. Waiting for dawn. Until she came. “Run,” she had whispered, her voice trembling. “If you stay… they will kill you.” And so he had run. Left her behind. Left everything behind. But now… He stared at the screen again, his breathing growing heavier. Could that one night… have created a life? Could that fragile moment have brought a child into this cruel world? His voice came out low, almost unrecognizable. “…I have a daughter.” Another message blinked open. (Daddy… I’m five now. Mommy taught me well. I can speak properly. But you have to come quickly. They took me. I don’t know where I am. The phone… it’s about to die…) The air inside the car turned suffocating. Five years old. She had grown up in fear. Forced to mature faster than she should. His eyes burned, but no tears fell. Only something colder replaced them. Something far more dangerous. The car came to a slow stop. Damien glanced back cautiously. “Sir… where to?” There was a brief silence. Then the man looked up. And when he spoke, his voice carried the weight of absolute judgment. “Ashford Estate.” A pause. “They will be my first… and last stop.” His gaze shifted toward the city skyline, his eyes colder than the deepest winter. “Anyone who touched my daughter…” “…will not live long enough to regret it.” For fifteen hours, he had crossed borders, broken barriers, and chased shadows. But now, there would be no more searching. Only reckoning. Every second that passed felt like a blade pressing deeper into his chest. Her voice echoed in his mind. Her fear. Her innocence. Her plea. His fingers slowly curled into a fist. “I made a promise…” His voice dropped into something final. Something absolute. “…no one will ever hurt you again.” “And this time…” “…I will keep it.”