At thirteen years old, Ghost was given a squad.
It wasn't an ordinary group, but a team made up of experienced American special forces soldiers, hardened by years of war and forged in the intense fire of combat.
But there was a problem.
None of them wanted to be there.
They were ripped from their elite units—units where they had already proven their worth in countless missions—and thrown into a new squad without explanation, without context.
Just orders, as always. And the worst part?
They received news that felt like a cruel joke — their leader? A thirteen-year-old kid.
They were skeptical, suspicious, and deep down, offended.
How could they follow a boy?
How could they respect someone who hadn't lived long enough to understand the weight of a real mission?
Then, they found out who that kid was.
The rumors had already crossed borders, reaching places where the name Ghost was whispered with respect and fear.
The shadow of an assassin who killed without leaving a trace.
A specter that hunted down traffickers, terrorists, and even heads of state with absolute precision.
His enemies barely had time to react before becoming his next victim.
But nothing—nothing—could've prepared them for the reality.
The first shock came during training.
Ghost didn't accept excuses. He didn't tolerate limitations.
His discipline was ruthless. His words—short, cold, and direct—cut like razors:
"Only the best can walk with me."
And then, hell began.
The training was brutal.
The physical strain was overwhelming—immeasurable—resistance pushed to the limit of the impossible.
Combat drills that bordered on torture, designed to test the very fiber of a human at their weakest.
For men who had already endured the world's harshest training programs, it felt like a slap to logic.
They had been built to endure the impossible, and now a thirteen-year-old kid was challenging them in ways they couldn't even comprehend.
But Ghost didn't care about their complaints or frustrations.
He didn't accept the elite standard.
To him, the best of the best were still trash.
He wanted more. He wanted something beyond what eyes could see—beyond the limits of what any human could reach.
Sleep-deprivation drills, where the mind disconnects from the body, but the body keeps demanding more.
Real combat with shock weapons to simulate the unbearable pain of the battlefield, where failure meant more than just a loss—it meant entire days of suffering, without food, without rest.
Simulated missions that defied logic and survival, where a single mistake could mean real death.
Or worse, abandonment deep in enemy territory, in a place with no return.
The initial skepticism turned to hate.
The hate turned to respect.
And respect, slowly, became absolute loyalty.
Ghost molded them with iron hands.
There was no room for weakness.
No room for mistakes.
Under his command, they were no longer just soldiers.
They were something beyond that—something even their enemies couldn't understand.
If they were once considered the elite, now they were the elite of the elite.
There was no doubt:
They were the best in the world.
And the world would know it.