The freckled private and the senior sergeant had already changed their positions. They formed a somewhat irregular triangle with William Grant at the center. The wounded soldier leaning against the rock also adjusted his sitting posture, resting a fully loaded AMP diagonally across his legs. These movements seemed casual, but in fact, they were the most effective way to deal with a stranger being watched. If necessary, the young man at the core of the firing formation would be instantly and completely covered by an unstoppable barrage of fierce firepower.

Every pair of eyes was fixed on him.

He, too, was curiously observing the people before him.

Suddenly, William Grant noticed a subtle, indescribable glimmer deep within the young man’s pupils, flickering faintly. But one thing was certain—it was definitely not hostility.

This allowed his nerves, stretched to the limit, to gradually relax. His right hand left the holster at his waist and reached out to the stranger opposite him, speaking in a gentle and friendly tone: “Hello.”

The unfamiliar young man hesitated a little. He slung his gun upright over his shoulder, grasped the other’s hand, and responded in a tone tinged with a smile: “…Hello.”

William Grant continued, “179th Infantry Division, 3rd Regiment, Reconnaissance Unit, William Grant.”

The young man still wore a faint smile as he replied calmly, “Reorganized 81st Division, Isaac Carter.”

As soon as he spoke, the atmosphere at the scene instantly turned silent.

A flash of undisguised fear appeared in the freckled private’s eyes. His lips parted wide, and beads of sweat began to form densely on his forehead.

The senior sergeant’s expression was relatively composed, but the sound of him sharply inhaling through his teeth could be clearly heard.

As for the wounded soldier slumped on the ground, his face wrapped in bandages revealed no emotion, but his hands could be seen trembling slightly—an amplitude that grew larger and larger.

Standing in the middle, William Grant said nothing, nor did he make any move that might provoke a strong reaction from his companions.

In the past decade or so of Earth Federation history, the Reorganized 81st Division was a legend—a symbol admired by all soldiers, and even all citizens.

Eighteen years ago, that battle buried everything about the Reorganized 81st Division, along with nuclear warheads and countless names honored as “martyrs,” deep in the S12 mine.

They held out until the very end.

Not a single one of them surrendered.

They held off an enemy more than ten times their strength, until the last moment.

The Earth Federation military never reestablished the Reorganized 81st Division.

This special designation could only be found in the military’s war history archives. Like a bugle call, it inspired countless soldiers and those who aspired to achieve glory on the battlefield. In their most desperate, helpless, and lowest moments, it helped them regain their spirit and confidence—to fight, to roar, to strive for their own honor with blood and life.

Countless answers flashed through William Grant’s mind in an instant—he wanted to find an explanation that would equate the young man before him, who called himself “Isaac Carter,” with one of those answers. Yet, no matter which one he considered, not a single possibility matched.

Isaac Carter saw the fear and doubt in their hearts. He spread his right foot, planted himself firmly on the ground, and said seriously, “I am the only survivor.”

The freckled private and the senior sergeant exchanged glances, simultaneously tightening their grips on their guns. As they struggled to control their emotions, holding their breath and suppressing the swelling fear and shock deep inside, so tense they wanted to raise their weapons and aim at the other… William Grant finally stepped forward.

He walked up to the mysterious young man, staring intently into those clear, water-like eyes. After nearly five minutes, he reached out and gave his shoulder a firm pat. In a voice that was not entirely certain, but steady enough, he said, “Thank you… Thank you for saving us. Welcome back—”

……

The color of the ceiling was powdery white, tinged with a bit of gray from the dim lighting.

Lying on a camp bed covered with only a thin blanket, Isaac Carter raised both hands, crossing them behind his head, calmly gazing at the rectangular space above.

From the moment he decided to make contact with William Grant’s squad, he had already anticipated the treatment he was now receiving.

He followed the rescued reconnaissance squad all the way back to the Earth Federation Army’s base. There were no cheers or embraces; a few fully armed military police simply brought him here. From start to finish, not a single word was asked.

In fact, the detention was not aimed at him alone.

Whether in the Earth Federation or the Pan-Union, every soldier returning from the battlefield had to undergo detailed questioning. This was an essential step in verifying military achievements and gathering information. Especially near the front lines, vigilance against enemy infiltration had become the most basic, unspoken rule for both sides.

However, Isaac Carter’s “treatment”… was even more special.

The door was made of five-centimeter-thick solid titanium steel—as humanity’s exploration of space expanded, this metal, once considered a special material in the last century, had become increasingly common. But its hardness and strength remained unchanged.