Once a Dog, Now a God

The border of the Northern Desert, deep into the night. The wind came slicing across the barren ridge like a row of invisible blades, laced with drifting grit that stung exposed skin with every gust. The world felt stripped to bone—silent, air thin as paper, darkness so dense it looked ready to swallow sound itself. A temporary forward outpost clung to the rocky slope, little more than a few camouflaged tents pressed tight against the mountain as though trying not to breathe. The lights were dimmed to the faintest glimmer. Even a lit cigarette was f*******n—any glow would be as good as a death sentence. “War Dog, do you copy? Can you still hold?” A gravel-deep voice crackled through the headset. Behind a jagged boulder, a young soldier half-kneeled on the ground, body slick with his own blood. His chest heaved like a bellows pushed beyond its limits. The combat suit he wore had been shredded by shrapnel; two bullets had torn grooves along his upper arm, still oozing warm crimson down his elbow. He wiped the blood from his eyes with the back of his hand, expression steady, almost detached. “I can still fight.” That was his codename—War Dog. Behind him lay a makeshift defensive line: wounded soldiers sprawled out, some barely conscious, their breathing shallow and uneven. Two miles ahead, across the black desert, an armed unit that had crossed the border was pushing in. Their numbers dwarfed his side. Everything about the situation screamed one thing: Retreat. But if they retreated, the refugee camp farther behind them—already in the middle of emergency evacuation—would be left exposed. The civilians there had no protection, no cover, no time. No soldier could accept that outcome. “The fallback route is open,” the headset whispered again. “War Dog, cover the retreat. Once they’re out, find your own way home.” “Copy.” He drew a long, painful breath. The motion stabbed fire across his ribs—two of them were definitely broken. No time to dwell on it. No time to worry about anything except the next second. He seized the heavy machine g*n beside him, muscles knotting as he hauled its weight up by sheer force of will. “Move!” he shouted back at the soldiers who could still stand. “Take the wounded and follow the flare markers. Don’t look back.” “What about you?” He showed them a thin, almost defiant smile. “I stay behind.” Before anyone could argue, he squeezed the trigger. The world erupted. A torrent of bullets spewed outward, ripping the night apart in a storm of fire. The enemy’s probing advance slammed to a halt, screams tearing open the darkness. They hadn’t expected a lone, half-dead soldier to meet them with a machine g*n and the stubbornness of a man who simply refused to die. Behind him, his brothers clenched their teeth, lifted the stretchers, and began a desperate retreat into the night. The ammunition ran dry far too quickly. War Dog tossed the empty weapon aside, grabbed a signal flare from his belt, and fired it straight into the sky. A red arc slashed upward, exploding into a harsh glow that painted the ridge blood-red. A light bright enough to guide his team. A light bright enough to doom him. On the radio, someone cursed under their breath. “He’s insane!” The enemy quickly adjusted their aim. Bullets hammered the rocks like a relentless hailstorm. War Dog rolled behind another boulder, but not fast enough—one more round punched into his shoulder, tearing fresh blood into the air. Pain flared sharp and electric, but the strike only cleared his mind. “Retreating means those refugees die,” he murmured, peering into the black valley behind him. “So the only path left… is forward.” He drew his combat blade, hugged the mountain wall, and began a silent crawl toward the enemy flank. … An hour later, fire burned in tangled streaks across the ravine. Smoke, dust, and powder thickened the air until it tasted metallic and bitter. When the reinforcement unit finally arrived, the forward outpost was shattered—exploded rock, collapsed sandbags, scorched ground everywhere they looked. The smell of blood clung to the wind. The enemy squad was still there. What remained of them, anyway—scattered bodies, rigid in the cold. And War Dog lay slumped beneath a rock, soaked nearly head to toe in dried and fresh blood. In his arms rested a grenade, its pin still intact. When they found him, he forced his eyes open just a fraction, glanced at the ruined battlefield around him, and managed a faint grin. “…Quiet now.” Then he passed out. … Seventy-two hours later. Military District General Hospital. Intensive Care. Through the glass panel, two officers in crisp uniforms stood at attention. Between them was an elderly man with silver hair, leaning on a cane. His gaze was heavy as he looked at the unconscious young soldier in the bed. “This is him?” the old man asked. “Yes, sir. Border Recon Unit. Codename War Dog.” “The injuries?” “He fell off a cliff during combat and survived. Multiple shattered ribs, severe chest bleeding, dozens of embedded fragments across his body. The surgeons say it’s a miracle he’s alive.” The old man was silent for a long moment. Then, quietly, with something like reluctant admiration: “He held off an entire squad by himself that night?” “Yes,” the officer confirmed. “Forensics shows he looped around the flank, eliminated two enemy fire posts, and then used their own explosives to collapse the canyon entrance. Trapped them inside like a sealed grave. If he hadn’t done that, the refugee camp behind us… the casualties would’ve been catastrophic.” The old man looked through the glass at the pale but sharply contoured face on the pillow. “And his family background?” “Checked already,” the officer replied, opening a file. “Orphan. Raised in a state home. No relatives, no attachments. Made it into the academy on his own, then straight to the front line.” “No attachments,” the old man murmured. “That’s why he throws his life around like this. Men like him are the sharpest blades—and the easiest to break.” The officer hesitated, then lowered his voice: “Sir, The Obsidian Circle already sent a request. They want him transferred.” The old man closed his eyes for a moment. “The Obsidian Circle… That place eats people alive.” Quiet stretched thin. At last, he nodded. “Ask for the boy’s decision.” “Yes, sir.” … A few days later. General ward. On the third day of his recovery, War Dog—real name Matthew Powell—sat upright on the bed, posture perfectly straight despite the wraps covering his chest and arms. The bandages looked like white scars laid neatly across him. Two empty bottles of nutrient solution sat on the table beside him. Outside the window, the sky brooded with heavy clouds. Footsteps approached. The door opened. The silver-haired elder entered, followed by the same officer. Matthew instinctively tried to salute, but the old man pushed him back down gently. “You’re injured. Stay put.” “Sir,” Matthew greeted, voice steady. The old man looked him over and nodded. “Good. The fire in your eyes hasn’t dimmed.” The officer placed a document on the bedside table. “There’s a proposed transfer. The organization wants to hear your thoughts.” Matthew glanced at it. A cold, simple title: Discussion Regarding the Transfer of Matthew Powell to the Special Operations Unit, The Obsidian Circle. He froze for a second. “The Obsidian Circle?” “A place that can never exist in daylight,” the old man said evenly. “Once you go there, your name disappears. Only your codename remains. If you succeed, you may one day stand above heights most will never touch. If you die… you’ll be buried in an unmarked grave.” “Think carefully before you sign.” Silence settled like dust. Matthew lowered his gaze, fingers brushing the small hospital tag hanging from the bed—a flimsy sticker with his name written on it. His real name. Maybe the only place where it existed without being crossed out. Matthew Powell. For some reason, he let out a faint, almost bitter laugh. From the orphanage to the academy, from the academy to the frontline—he had spent his entire life running forward without once stopping to think about “what he wanted to become.” If someone needed something done, he stepped up. That was it. Suddenly, he remembered the dying soldier from that night, the one who grabbed his wrist with b****y fingers and whispered with his final breath: —“Matt… you being alive means more than the rest of us living.” Matthew exhaled slowly. “Sir… what exactly does The Obsidian Circle do?” The old man answered softly, “They take bullets for others. They take invisible bullets for this country.” Matthew said nothing. Then, with a quiet finality, he picked up the pen and signed his name. “I’ll go.” The old man stared at the signature for a long time, a complex emotion flickering in his eyes. “Since you’ve chosen this path,” he said, voice low, “from today onward, your record, your résumé… even your name will be rewritten. Layer after layer of new seals will bury your past.” “Are you ready for that?” Matthew gripped the pen until his knuckles whitened. “Sir,” he said, lifting his head, eyes unwavering, “I never had much of a past. And I never had anything tying me down.” “And if I make it back alive one day… I hope I’ll get to find something worth being tied to.” The old man’s breath caught for a moment. “…Good,” he finally said. “Then go.” “From this moment on, your new provisional codename—War God.” … Years later, when he stood at the pinnacle of global combat power, when people across continents whispered the name War God with awe, reverence, or fear— This scene was buried deep beneath layers of dust and memory. Only he knew the truth: The moment he signed that transfer order, the words “no attachments” became a promise fate would one day crush beneath its heel.