Rebirth of a Mercenary: The Ace Mercenary Forced to Be the Beloved of the Group

The atmosphere in the conference room at the special forces base was colder than the December weather outside.

On the long table were the written reports of eleven team members, each filled with words. Some used relatively restrained language, while others simply piled up words like "lynching," "murder," and "intentional homicide."

The person in charge was a lieutenant colonel in his forties surnamed Zheng. His hair was so thin that it could not cover his scalp. One button on the collar of his training uniform was undone, revealing a gray lining that was soaked with cold sweat.

He sat at the head of the conference table, with eleven reports spread out in front of him. He held a half-burnt cigarette between his left and right index fingers tapping the table idly.

Five or six people sat on either side of the table—the political commissar, the chief of staff, the head of the training department, the legal advisor, and a liaison officer who had come temporarily from a higher authority.

"Tell me everything." Lieutenant Colonel Zheng stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and ground it twice. "A man is dead. He died on our base's training ground, at the hands of mercenaries. The higher-ups are asking, and the military procuratorate will find out sooner or later. How are you going to explain this? Give me an explanation from each of you."

The legal advisor was the first to speak.

He pushed up his glasses, which had slipped down his nose, opened a thick compilation of military regulations in front of him, and tapped a page with his finger. His tone was as if he were reading a verdict: "From a legal perspective, the nature of this matter is very clear. Whatever the deceased did to the instructor during training, it should be handed over to a military court. Using vigilante justice and executing him on the spot constitutes intentional homicide. If we don't pursue this, we're committing cover-up. If we do, and are investigated by superiors or the procuratorate, every one of us here will bear joint liability. My suggestion is to report this immediately, fully cooperate with the investigation, and bring those involved—"

"The people involved?" The chief of staff turned the report over and slammed it face down on the table, interrupting the legal counsel. "Tell me first, who are the people involved? What are their names? What do they look like?"

The legal advisor opened his mouth, then froze.

"They came wearing masks. From the first day to the last, they never took them off. We know nothing about their real names, identities, or employers. When we signed the contract, the client wrote down an encrypted code, and the bank transfers went through anonymous overseas accounts. Now you want to report this? Report to whom? Report 'five unidentified individuals wearing black masks'? Do you believe that the first reaction of your superiors upon receiving this report will be to send us to a mental hospital?"

"Not to mention their combat capabilities and background," the training chief added from the side, his voice low but carrying a lingering fear of having survived a close call. "I checked the training data from the past two weeks. Putting everything else aside, just consider chasing someone at 3,000 meters—catching up with someone in freefall without deploying a parachute, performing a mid-air takedown, and then deploying a tandem parachute—is that even humanly possible? I've been training at this base for over a decade, and the best parachute instructor I've ever seen dared to boast on flat ground that they could do it. Their captain did it. This kind of person—you want to sue him? Even if you win, what do you have to use to arrest him? Who do you send to arrest him? Can you even catch him? And what do you use to detain him after you bring him back?"

The political commissar finally spoke, his voice not loud, but every word carried the composure and shrewdness of someone who had been through many years in officialdom: "You've all overlooked the most crucial question—why did our team members push the instructors?"

"Being chased around by a sniper rifle made them feel humiliated. Unable to save face, they sought revenge. Their revenge involved pushing the instructor out of the hatch at 3,000 meters. This is, at best, a violation of training discipline; at worst, attempted murder. If that instructor hadn't been rescued, there wouldn't be one person lying in a body bag now, but two." He flipped the report face down on the table, glanced around at everyone present, and his tone suddenly turned cold. "Who are we going to sue then?"

No one answered.

After a long silence, a financial assistant sitting at the end of the table cautiously raised his hand.

He was of a lower rank than everyone else present and shouldn't have spoken at this meeting, but he was just too anxious—he was the one who handled the contract, he was the one who paid the deposit, and the final payment hadn't been made yet; today was the payment date.

He looked at the eleven reports spread out on the table and the closed compilation of military regulations, licked his chapped lips, and whispered, "Then... what about the money?"

Lieutenant Colonel Zheng turned his head sharply and glared at him. His gaze was like that of someone looking at a mentally challenged person at a funeral asking, "What's for dinner tonight?"

"Money? You're still thinking about money?" Lieutenant Colonel Zheng's voice rose a half-octave, his fingers pounding the table. "The man is dead! You're asking me what to do with the money?!"

The finance assistant shrank back in fright, but still professionally added, "The contract is signed, but the training wasn't completed. According to the terms, a portion of the final payment should be deducted... at least a penalty for breach of contract... Should I talk to them about it first?"

"Communication?" Lieutenant Colonel Zheng stood up from his chair, his hands gripping the edge of the table. He glared at the finance assistant, his expression as if he'd heard a truly unfunny joke. "You're going to communicate? Communicate with your head? Look at how that person stabbed you in the back—you're going to talk to them about breach of contract fees? You believe me, your head will be stuck on the flagpole on the parade ground tomorrow?"

The finance assistant's face was as white as the snow on the playground outside the window. He slowly lowered his raised hand, shrinking into a small ball in the chair.

Lieutenant Colonel Zheng took a deep breath, picked up a cigarette from the pack on the table, shook it out, and put it in his mouth. He tried to light it three times before it finally did. He took a deep drag, exhaled the smoke toward the ceiling, and then sat back in his chair, his tone shifting from his previous agitation to a calm that seemed to have given up entirely.

"What else can we do? Nothing. Pay the rest of the money, not a penny less. Consider this money a coffin for the dead—and a lesson for ourselves. Next time we hire outsiders as instructors, let's get a damn thorough background check first! They're already being lenient by not coming after us. You think you can negotiate contract terms with these kinds of people? Did they set the contract for you, or did they set it for you?"

The finance assistant nodded vigorously, as fast as a chicken pecking at rice, as if she wanted to delete the question from the meeting minutes.

"Alright, meeting adjourned." Before leaving the meeting room, Lieutenant Colonel Zheng left with his final words. "Report the deceased as a training accident. Maintain a consistent narrative: He died during a high-altitude parachute jump training exercise due to parachute malfunction caused by operational error. Anyone with objections, raise them now; otherwise, proceed as planned. Whoever leaks this information will be the next one in trouble."