Chapter 3: Prologue

The sterile silence in the underground facility was shattered by the sudden activation of a digital countdown, its harsh glow illuminating the fiery, metallic surroundings. The numbers blinked on the sleek monitor with a merciless rhythm—ten seconds and counting.

Every changed digit was only a reminder of what would come after it hit zero.

It had already cast a haunting glow bathing it in an eerie half-light yet now the glow from the flickering digital countdown was competing with the subtle dance of flames that caressed the edges of the facility.

The once sterile walls, now marred by soot and scorched marks, seemed to groan under the assault of the encroaching fire, bearing witness to a destructive force that had erupted within the confines of the place.

Tongues of flame licked the remnants of what was left from the falling pieces and destroyed things, casting ominous shadows that danced with the cadence of the countdown.

The air in the once-thriving research facility hung thick with acrid smoke, the pungent scent of burning machinery and scorched metal assaulting the senses in a haunting reminder of the devastation that had taken place just hours ago. The remnants of broken equipment littered the floor, evidence of a battle fought and lost.

In the midst of this electronic requiem, a wounded soldier, drenched in her own blood, leant against the table, the cold surface pressing against her back, offering a stark contrast to the warmth of the fires that raged around her.

She wore a once-elegant grey blouse, now marred by the chaos surrounding her, boreing the chaotic tapestry of battle—torn, bloodstained fabric clung to her form, a visual testament to the fight she had endured. The most grievous wounds adorned her abdomen, where the fabric clung desperately to a jagged tear. Blood seeped through the teared material, the crimson stain growing like a dark blossom.

Leather straps buckled around her bosom and waist, once a symbol of both fashion and function, now serving as tattered remnants of a time when control was still within reach. The blouse bore witness to the struggles, torn and stained with the residue of a desperate battle for revenge and survival in a world that had been dictated by its own greed, desire for power, and the well-known source of corrupted world leaders.

Her right shoulder, bereft of its sleeve, exposed a canvas of artistry turned macabre. A Japanese dragon, once vibrant and fierce, coiled itself around her arm in a mesmerising dance of ink. But now, the dragon dripped with its master's blood, the crimson fluid obscuring the intricate details of the once-proud tattoo, a mark that was once a sign of her power.

The dragon, a silent victim of the unfolding tragedy, seemed to writhe in agony as its majesty bled away.

She sat in a silhouette of silent contemplation, her wounded arm resting on her lap, and the dragon's tail disappeared beneath the fabric of her damaged blouse, hidden between her thighs. In the flickering glow of the dimly lit room, her expression was the only chilling tableau of emptiness.

The wearied lines on her face seemed to deepen, and her eyes, once windows to a vibrant soul, now bore an eerie vacancy. It was as though the puppet strings of emotion had been severed, leaving behind a stoic facade that masked the turmoil within.

Her soft, milky white skin, once a canvas of purity, now bore the cruel imprints of battle. Streaks of dirt and smudges of grime had marred the delicate surface of her once pure skin, only to transform it into a tapestry of a gruesome battle.

Blood, both fresh and dried, adorned her skin like a macabre mosaic, painting a visceral narrative of the brutality she had endured. The crimson stains formed an unsettling contrast against the pallor of her complexion, a visceral reminder of the life force that had spilt from her wounds. Droplets of blood dripped down from her parted lips and ran down her chin.

Yet, in the midst of this gruesome tableau, her empty gaze remained fixed on the countdown, as if the physical toll on her body was a secondary consideration to the impending doom unfolding on the digital display.

With a numb heart and tired empty eyes she watched the digital countdown.

Her features betrayed no trace of fear or desperation. The pain etched across her wounded form seemed to withdraw into the recesses of her empty expression. She had long accepted her fate, embracing the inevitable with only a grim reminder of her fate after death.

Hell.

The only destination that awaited her.

Her once bright red eyes filled with determination and strength now held nothing but an empty sorrow of misery, clouded by the burdens of a life spent in the war. A spirit that once lived within the window of her eyes was once a spark that had been fueled had now long been extinguished. Where there was once a fierce glint of purpose, now lingered a void, an emptiness that seemed to stretch into eternity.

She was tired. Her body and soul were exhausted from the endless war that had taken everyone from her—the comrades she once called family, her best friend, and her brother.

How death will be her release from this hellish world, this cruel reality of what she was and what she has done, even if it meant that she would go to hell, at least she could spend just a few seconds feeling as if she could finally relax after years of fighting and spilling blood.

Her once animated countenance now appeared as a mere vessel, a vessel that had surrendered to the inexorable flow of time. The room, engulfed in shadows and the soft crackling of flames, bore witness to the puppeteer's final act. She sat, a marionette of acceptance, her strings severed, as the digital countdown continued its relentless march towards the inevitable end.

As the flames flickered, she turned her gaze away from the unforgiving countdown. Her eyes, once sharp and focused, softened as they swept across the remnants of the room she had once controlled under the title of Captain of the Japanese Elite Soldiers and lieutenant general.

Where she sat is where she once stood tall and high, in her military uniform, with her hands behind her back and her red eyes going from one screen to another.

Just as that, a bitter revelation surfaced in the recesses of her mind.

She remembered when the people saw her as the embodiment of honour, a loyal and honourable soldier dedicated to the cause of Japan. A hero, they called her, a saviour to her nation.

Something you would have found in WW1 and WW2.

However, the bitter taste of irony crept in as she reflected on the absurdity of her past. The people manipulated by a narrative she once believed in, had crowned her with laurels of loyalty. It was a role she played so well, a facade of honor meticulously crafted by those who controlled the strings.

As much as the people made her seem to be an angel from heaven who had descended down to be born in the body of a human, she knew well that it was just a name given to her after the events of the battles she fought against the enemy.

She was not just a soldier but a pawn in a larger, more insidious game. The echoes of her past resonated with the bitter truth that she had been nothing more than a weapon, an experiment in clandestine laboratories.

Project 13.

The experiment was to create the perfect weapons for war. A step further into science, genes, and the future of mankind.

The perfect soldier, they called them.

They called her.

One of the survivors of the 13 experimented children.

Although the very creation itself was not to fight humans but to fight war machines and war tanks. It was a way to create a perfect human to wield one of the Nebulas.

Powerful and magical weapons that appeared all over the world 35 years ago. The sole reason why the whole world had suddenly plunged itself into another destructive war.

World War 3.

The Nebula weapons were unlike anything ever seen before.

It was when another powerful leader rose above the ruins of the battles and began to pursue another path of power. Some even came to call him the reincarnation of Adolf Hitler himself.

He was the one who introduced Project 13. A billion dollar investment for a human experimented project.

The covert experiments and the invasive procedures turned children into living weapons that conquered Nebula.

They were forged in the crucible of a war, where they knowingly played the roles of both pawns and executioners. The loyalty they had pledged and the hero's mantle they wore were carefully crafted illusions designed to fulfil a sinister agenda by the Japanese and other allies around the world.

She still stayed loyal to her cause, to what she was made to be, and to what she was told to do.

However, she couldn't predict what they would do next.

Her brother's death, once a tragic loss she mourned, had been an integral part of a plan orchestrated by those she once considered allies.

In the wake of his death, the walls of loyalty crumbled, revealing something she could no longer ignore. The cause she once championed, the people she fought for, were not the pillars of righteousness she was taught about them to be. They were the architects of her brother's demise. And in the wake of that revelation, she had turned away, forsaking the very cause that had defined her and driven her into a state of madness.

She had drowned her soldiers in a pit of burning flames and killed everyone on sight before surrendering herself to the people she once called enemies, the same people she brought down during her life as an elite soldier.

It's what gave her the drive for revenge, fuelled by a deep-seated rage and determination to make them pay.

To make him pay.

It's what led her to destroy everything that man had spent years working on and perfecting, what he had achieved. Even it meant killing the very people she once called family.

She wanted to make him watch as everything he worked for slowly crumbled like a mountain. She wanted him to watch as she took down his armies, killed his people and destroy everything.

And yet many sacrifices were made for her revenge to be achieved.

A sardonic chuckle bubbled up within her, a dark amusement at the twisted joke fate had played. The hero transformed into a traitor, not by choice but by the cruel hand of destiny. She had joined the enemies, knowing full well that the true enemy was the very nation she had once pledged her loyalty to. The room, now a silent witness to her internal reckoning, echoed with the bitter laughter that escaped her lips.

It's what the people of Japan began to call her—the fallen angel, the one fallen from grace.

What a cruel joke God had played on her.

Of course, none of it matters anymore.

She got her revenge.

It was all over.

Now she was bleeding to death, and yet the self-destruction of the headquarters would reach her first before she breathed her last breath.

She chuckled again, a bitter acknowledgement of the absurdity of the narrative that had unfolded. The irony of being hailed as a hero only to be condemned as a traitor made her go into another madness of chuckles. The laughter, however, was short-lived, replaced by a sharp intake of breath as pain surged through her wounded abdomen. Regret mingled with the fleeting amusement, and she winced, her momentary lapse into irony replaced by the harsh reality of her circumstances.

"What a shitty 17 years of my life," she scoffed bitterly. "Nothing but shit and that fucking face of that bastard," she grunted, a foul taste of blood gurgling up her throat.

She smiled bitterly at herself. Despite the pain and bitterness, she couldn't help but acknowledge the irony of her situation. The once-admired hero had now become a symbol of betrayal and despair.

"Tch. Whatever. It's not like any of it matters anymore once I'm gone. Not this world and not even me." She mumbled softly. The memories of the horrid seventeen years under military command, subjected to heartless experiments and betrayals, seemed to dissolve into the encroaching shadows. She no longer cared about the torment that had defined her existence; it was a weight she had cast aside in the face of the impending self-destruction.

She chuckled once more. "This is so pathetic. After all this shit and this is where I die. The place that I thought I would never step foot again. Although, at least the world leaders are going to sleep peacefully tonight knowing I'm gone" She scoffed again before grinning a heartless smile "Heh. Those hypocritical governments can all eat shit after this."

As the countdown neared to 1, she closed her eyes, a faint smile playing on her lips before another chuckle of madness left her parted lips.

"Man, fuck me -"