Inside the military center.

**Chapter 4: The Legacy of the Mute Hero**

As Yuriy stepped across the threshold of the Black Lotus Center, the noise hit him first—a low hum of voices, machinery, and boots on concrete.

Then came the sight.

At least a hundred people filled the main hall. Soldiers, engineers, and logistics staff paused in their tracks, turning to look at him. It wasn't just the gaze given to a new recruit; it was the scrutiny reserved for a celebrity—or a lab rat.

Yuriy shifted uncomfortably, clutching his duffel bag tighter.

"Don't mind the staring," Vladyslav said, offering a reassuring grin. "Welcome to the headquarters of the Black Lotus Company. Impressive, isn't it? We’re a mixed unit. But our specific division? We are the Tactical Gaming Specialists."

"Tactical Gaming Specialists?" Yuriy echoed, his eyes scanning the high-tech monitors and tactical maps lining the walls. It looked less like a barracks and more like a cyberpunk server room.

"Exactly," Vladyslav nodded. "We take the logic, the reflexes, and the strategy of gaming and apply them to real-world combat. And you... you’re the final piece of the puzzle."

Under the watchful eyes of Anastasia, Vladyslav, and a still-chuckling Vasyl, Yuriy marched through the grand entrance hall. Whispers trailed him like smoke.

*"Is that him?"*

*"The 'Philosopher'?"*

*"He looks young. Can he really handle the tech?"*

He ignored them, keeping his eyes forward. They stopped in front of a heavy oak door at the end of the corridor. Anastasia and the others halted, stepping to the side.

"Go on," Vladyslav urged. "The Captain is waiting. Alone."

Yuriy looked at them, then at the door. He took a breath, straightened his back, and turned the handle.

The office inside smelled of old pine, gun oil, and the faint, sharp scent of horilka.

It was a room built for war. A massive map of the country dominated the far wall, pinned with red flags marking the frontlines. A sturdy desk sat in the center, cluttered with radios, documents, and a carved wooden Tryzub—the national trident—gleaming in the light.

And behind the desk sat the Captain.

Or at least, Yuriy assumed it was the Captain. The man was slumped deep in his chair, head lolling back, mouth open. A faint snore escaped his lips.

Yuriy blinked. *This is the man in charge?*

He cleared his throat. Once. Twice.

The snoring continued uninterrupted.

Yuriy felt a vein throb in his temple. It was the same frustration he felt when a teammate went AFK in a ranked match. His patience, already worn thin by grief and the day's chaos, snapped.

"EXCUSE ME!"

The shout echoed off the walls.

The Captain jolted upright as if he’d been electrocuted. His eyes flew open, wide and bloodshot. In his confused, semi-lucid state, his hand slammed onto the desk as he bellowed:

"Anastasia has the most perfect body ever!"

Silence.

Yuriy took a step back, his face twisting in panic. "W-What was that?"

The Captain blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. The fog of sleep slowly cleared, revealing a pair of sharp, intelligent eyes beneath a mess of grey hair. He looked at Yuriy, squinting.

"Hmm? Who are you?"

Yuriy swallowed hard, trying to compose himself. "It's just me, Yuriy Kozlov. The new recruit."

"Ah..." The Captain yawned, scratching his ear lazily. "So you finally showed up? I’ve been waiting all day. Got bored and dozed off."

Yuriy straightened his posture, forcing himself to look professional despite the awkwardness. "You were waiting for me? Why? What makes me so important?"

The Captain froze. He stared at Yuriy, his eyes narrowing as if studying a fine painting.

Suddenly, the older man burst into laughter. "Bwahahahaha! This is too funny! I’m sorry, kid, I can’t help it!"

Yuriy’s eye twitched. "Huh? What’s so funny, you awkward old man?"

"It’s just..." The Captain wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. "It’s like I’m looking at a clone of that idiot. But this one talks! That’s the difference. Bwahahahaha!"

"Clone?" Yuriy frowned, irritation mixing with confusion.

The Captain took a deep breath, trying to calm his heaving chest. "Yes, a clone. I’m talking about your father. Your mute father. The resemblance is uncanny. Seeing you talk just makes it hilarious."

Yuriy froze. The air left the room. "My... father? You knew him?"

"Knew him?" The Captain’s smile softened into something reverent. "Kid, everyone in this country knows Oleksandr Kozlov. The war hero. The man who died saving his Captain."

Yuriy looked down at his boots. The name hit him like a physical blow. His father—the man he had yelled at, the man whose death he had secretly resented for taking his mother's attention, the man he never said 'I love you' to.

"I never really saw him that way," Yuriy admitted, his voice barely a whisper. "I was a spoiled kid. I didn't show him the respect he deserved. I just... I took him for granted."

The Captain cleared his throat, his demeanor shifting from joker to mentor. "If that’s why you’re making that sad face, stop it. Your father knew you were a good person, Yuriy. That’s exactly why we called you here. Not just for your gaming skills."

Yuriy looked up, puzzled. "I don't understand. I thought I was here to pilot the enemy tech?"

"You are," the Captain said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the desk. "But your dad... he left something for you. Something specific."

The Captain pulled open a drawer on the right side of his desk. He rummaged through files, tossing aside papers and pens.

"Where did I put that thing?" he muttered, his brow furrowing. "I could have sworn it was right here."

Yuriy felt a sudden surge of emotion. A keepsake? From his dad? His heart began to race. What could it be? A letter? A medal?

"Find it!" Yuriy shouted, leaning over the desk, his desperation overriding military protocol.

"Aha! Found it!"

The Captain pulled out a small object, wrapped carefully in a layer of aged cloth. He set it on the desk and pushed it toward Yuriy.

"Here. Take it. Uncover it yourself."

Yuriy reached out. His fingers trembled as they brushed against the rough fabric. It felt heavy for its size. He took a breath, gripping the edges of the cloth, and slowly peeled it back to reveal what his father had left behind.