The Warrior Major General

Return of God of War

Nathaniel*

Titanium International Airport

My private jet touched down and taxied to a halt. I took a slow breath, adjusting the cuffs of my jacket. I stepped out, the night air hit me, crisp and thick with the scent of jet fuel.

Above, a black military helicopter hovering, its blades slicing through the air with a rhythmic whir. Below, an entire contingent of high-ranking officials, Secret Service agents, and soldiers stood by armored vehicles in the VIP section. Their rigid stances, the occasional murmurs into earpieces—I knew they were waiting for me.

I took another route.

Slipping through an alternate exit, I stepped outside, where a tall, broad-shouldered man in a crisp military uniform was already waiting. Captain Reynolds. He moved swiftly, grabbing my luggage before snapping a sharp salute.

"Welcome home, Major General."

I narrowed my eyes. "Who leaked my arrival, Reynolds?"

He hesitated, just for a breath. "I made some inquiries while you were en route, sir. The name that came up was Evelyn Cross."

I exhaled sharply, my jaw tightening. "Evelyn Cross..." The name left a bitter taste in my mouth. Why would she do this?

Another voice cut through my thoughts. "Sir, should I inform the waiting party to disperse?"

I scoffed, shaking my head. "No. Leave them. If they want to wait, let them wait. It’s their time to waste."

Without another word, I climbed into the black SUV waiting for me. Reynolds followed, shutting the door behind him. The engine roared to life, and we pulled away from the terminal.

The city of Velmor unfolded before me. Sleek glass skyscrapers stretched high into the sky, neon lights flashing advertisements. Hover-trams glided above the streets, their blue-lit tracks barely visible against the bustling roads below. It was nothing like the city I had left behind a decade ago.

Hard to believe. Velmor has changed.

Changed was an understatement. I had grown up in a city of crumbling buildings and underfunded infrastructure, a place constantly on edge due to the looming threats from our enemies. But now, it is a beacon of modernization—clean, thriving, alive. It was unrecognizable.

Ten years is a long time. A decade ago, when our country was attacked, I was one of the youngest officers deployed to the frontlines. A fresh lieutenant, out of the academy, thrown into the chaos of war. But I hadn’t just fought—I had led. And I won.

One victory turned into another. My unit became known for its brutal efficiency. I had no choice but to adapt. To become the kind of leader men would follow even into the depths of hell. Promotions came fast, too fast. By the time I was in my late twenties, I was wearing the stars of a Major General—one of the youngest in our country’s history.

But titles and ranks meant little in war. Out there, at the border, the only thing that mattered was survival.

And now, I am back. Just when I thought I could finally take a rest, I received the devastating news about the death of my friend, Daniel Grayson.

"Sir... there's something you need to see."

Reynold pulled a folded photograph from his jacket and handed it to me. I took it. The image unfolded in my hands, and my breath stilled.

It was Daniel Grayson. Or rather, what was left of him.

My closest friend. The man who had fought beside me for years. The man who had once saved my life.

His body lay lifeless in the photo. His missing eyes made my stomach tighten with rage. They had been removed, leaving only dark, hollow sockets. The brutality of it was undeniable. This is more than a killing.

Reynolds continued. "The photo was taken after his death."

I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palm. My mind raced back to the last time I had seen Daniel, the night before he left the military for good. He had taken a bullet for me—one that should have ended my life. Instead, it had left him paralyzed, unfit to serve.

That night, we sat together, talking about the future. He had laughed, despite everything, and pulled out a photo. One of him was standing beside a beautiful woman, her smile radiant.

"This is her. Her name is Isabelle Hart. She’s the one I want to marry."

He had stared at that picture like it was his entire world. I remembered the way his fingers traced the edges of the image, the way his voice softened when he spoke about her.

"Nathaniel" he said, calling my name. "I never really wanted to be a soldier. I did it for my grandmother."

"She always said I was weak, timid, not half the man my brother was. I wanted to prove her wrong. So, I signed up, put on the uniform, and risked my life just to hear her say she was proud of me."

"And you know what she did when I showed her? She slapped me. Told me I didn’t know my place. That no matter what I did, I would never compare to Luther Grayson—my perfect, untouchable half-brother."

"My grandmother never let me forget that my mother’s blood was low, that I’d never truly belong in the family. But even after all of that, I don’t hate them. They’re still my family, the only ones I have."

That was the last night we spoke.

Several days later, I received an invitation to his wedding. He had written a personal note at the bottom of the card: "Nathaniel, you must be there. No excuses."

But just days before the ceremony, the news came.

Daniel Grayson was dead.

I couldn't let it go.

To uncover the truth, I assembled a covert investigation unit—trusted men from the old division. Men who owed their lives to Daniel or respected his name. We pulled every thread, interrogated anyone who might have known anything. And what we found... or didn’t find... only made it worse.

No confirmed cause of death. His eyes removed postmortem. And Isabelle Hart—she didn’t shed a tear. Instead, she remained close to the family.

Then came the real blow. When the Graysons gave me their version of the story,

They said Daniel had fallen in love with Luther’s fiancée. That he had coveted what wasn’t his. That when she chose Luther, Daniel spiraled, drove into a tree, lost his eyes in the wreck, and, out of shame, took his own life.

No. I didn’t believe it.

Not Daniel. He wouldn’t take his own life. And he wouldn’t steal another man’s bride.

My thoughts were interrupted when Reynolds handed me a sleek white envelope.

"Sir, this is an invitation to Luther Grayson’s wedding. It’s in ten days. The Grayson estate is lively today."

"Is that so?" I replied.

I looked down at my hand and ran a thumb over the silver ring on my index finger—a simple band, engraved on the inside. Daniel gave it to me just before he left the service.

I held it tightly.

"Drive to the Grayson estate," I said. "It’s time I paid the family a visit."