"Good Luck" Earns Its Merit

Rain traced winding streaks across the virtual glass. Lin Xiao watched them gather, flow, and finally vanish at the edge of the window frame. The hot tea Su Ying had handed him gradually cooled in his hands, its fragrance diluted by the smell of metal and electronic equipment. Deep within the base, a report on anomalous energy readings in the mountainous border region of Bulgaria flickered across a S.H.I.E.L.D. analyst's screen.

Two days later.

Bulgaria-Turkey border, northern foothills of the Rhodope Mountains.

It was 3:47 a.m. The mountain night was bitterly cold. Wind howled through the valleys, whipping fine grains of snow against the rocks with a soft rustling sound. Pine forests swayed in the darkness, casting twisted shadows. The air carried the damp chill of pine needles, humus, and distant streams swollen by melting snow.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. reconnaissance squad, code-named Falcon Eye, consisted of four agents. They had been lying in wait near the designated coordinates for twenty-six hours. Their captain was Marcus Andre, a veteran agent from the Greek branch with twenty years of field reconnaissance experience. At that moment, he lay behind a moss-covered boulder, night-vision goggles pressed to his eyes as his breath condensed into white mist inside his mask.

"Heat source detected in Sector B-2." A teammate's whisper came through the earpiece, broken up by the wind. "Three off-road vehicles, two enclosed transport trucks. Heat signatures indicate... at least fifteen people."

Andre adjusted the focus on his night-vision goggles. In his field of view, green silhouettes moved slowly along the crude road in the valley below. The vehicles had no lights on, but their engines' heat signatures were unmistakable through the goggles. He noticed the convoy's formation—the first two off-road vehicles were too far apart, while the last truck had fallen noticeably behind the vehicles in the middle. The escort vehicles were scattered chaotically, nothing like the tight formation of a professional convoy.

"Prepare to record," Andre said softly. "All units, maintain radio silence. Wait until they enter Sector C-4."

On the other side of the valley, the Hydra transport convoy was struggling onward.

This team had been hastily assembled by Bowman of the Resource Faction. After headquarters ordered the transport plan suspended, Schmidt of the Radical Faction had bypassed procedure and directly ordered his loyalists in the transport department to "launch the shipment by force." They had to deliver the equipment to the handover point on the Turkish border within forty-eight hours, or the Radical Faction's project in the Middle East would face a delay of at least three months.

But the hastily assembled team was riddled with problems. The guards came from three different operational groups and were unfamiliar with one another's command signals. The escort team leader was Carl Hoffman, one of Schmidt's trusted men—a hulking brute famed for his courage but lacking tactical sense. The transport truck drivers, meanwhile, belonged to the Resource Faction and deeply opposed this reckless operation.

"Damn road!" Hoffman sat in the passenger seat of the first off-road vehicle, cursing the uneven mountain track. The vehicle jolted violently, and his head slammed into the roof with a dull thud. Complaints came from the vehicle radio behind them. "Captain, the second truck's rear left tire seems to be leaking. It can't pick up speed."

"Then drive slower! But don't stop!" Hoffman roared. "We have to cross the border before dawn!"

"But—"

"No buts!" Hoffman cut off the transmission and irritably raked a hand through his hair. He remembered Schmidt's warning before departure. "This equipment concerns our entire arrangement in the Middle East. If anything goes wrong, you know the consequences."

Consequences. Hoffman shuddered. He looked out the window, where the dark mountain forest resembled a gaping maw that could swallow them at any moment.

4:03 a.m.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. reconnaissance squad had completed a full scan of the convoy.

"Target confirmed." Andre studied the analysis results uploaded to his data terminal. "Vehicle models match the intelligence. Heat distribution indicates large precision equipment inside the transport trucks. Escort personnel... poor tactical discipline, loose formation."

He drew a deep breath, and the freezing air stabbed his lungs. Under standard procedure, they should have continued tracking the convoy and waited for reinforcements before carrying out an interception. But intelligence indicated that once this equipment crossed the border into Turkey, recovering it would become extremely difficult.

"Orders from headquarters." A voice from the Greek branch command center came through his earpiece amid static. "Once the target's value is confirmed, interception may be carried out at your discretion. Repeat, interception may be carried out at your discretion."

Andre exchanged glances with his three teammates. Beneath the green glow of their night-vision goggles, he saw the resolve in their eyes.

"Prepare to move," he said. "Team A takes the lead vehicles. Team B takes the rear. Secure the drivers first and avoid an exchange of fire. If resistance is encountered... nonlethal force is authorized."

"Understood."

"Understood."

The four agents slipped from their hiding places like ghosts, blending into the dark pine forest. Their movements were light and precise, their boots making almost no sound over snow and dead leaves. The wind continued to howl, masking the faint noises of their advance.

4:17 a.m.

The Hydra convoy entered a narrow stretch of mountain road. Steep rock walls rose on both sides, and the road was only wide enough for two vehicles to pass abreast. Hoffman felt a wave of unease—this was a perfect ambush site.

"Accelerate through it!" he shouted into the radio.

But it was already too late.

The first gunshot did not come from the S.H.I.E.L.D. agents.

It came from within the Hydra convoy.

"What's happening?!" Hoffman spun around.

Inside the second off-road vehicle, a Resource Faction guard had become so nervous that, upon hearing rocks tumble somewhere nearby, he accidentally pulled the trigger. The bullet shattered the window, and the sharp report exploded through the silent valley.

"Enemy attack!" someone screamed.

Chaos erupted instantly.

The S.H.I.E.L.D. reconnaissance squad was forced to change plans. Andre made the decision at once. "Execute Plan B! Suppressive fire! Secure the vehicles!"

The muffled pops of suppressors were nearly lost in the wind, but the sounds of bullets punching through tires and engine hoods were clear. The first off-road vehicle's front left tire burst, and the vehicle lost control and slammed into the rock wall. The airbag struck Hoffman hard in the face, sending blood pouring from his nose.

"Return fire! Return fire!" He struggled to draw his pistol and fired blindly out the window.

But the Hydra escort team's response was nothing short of disastrous. With no unified command, some chose to get out and search for cover, while others huddled inside their vehicles, too frightened to move. Members from different groups used different communication channels, and their orders clashed with one another. One Radical Faction member tried to organize a defense, only to be mistaken for an enemy by the Resource Faction and nearly shot by his own side.

"Damn it! Who are you shooting at?!"

"Shut up! Take cover!"

"The trucks! Protect the trucks!"

Andre calmly observed the situation. His team had already seized control—two agents flanked the convoy and suppressed most of the resistance with flashbangs and rubber bullets. A third agent approached the first transport truck, whose driver had already raised his hands in surrender.

But at that moment, something unexpected happened.

The driver of the second transport truck—a young Resource Faction member—made the worst possible decision in his panic. Seeing his companions fall one after another, though most had merely been brought down by nonlethal weapons, he believed they were facing annihilation. To keep the equipment from falling into enemy hands, he slammed down on the accelerator. The truck roared forward.

"Stop!" Andre shouted.

But the truck did not stop. It rammed aside the wreckage of the disabled off-road vehicle ahead and sped toward the valley exit. Andre raised his gun and aimed at the tires, but the truck was moving too fast and bouncing violently along the mountain road, making it impossible to get a clean shot.

"Team B! Intercept it!"

The S.H.I.E.L.D. agents lying in wait near the exit deployed a magnetic tire-puncturing device. Sharp steel spikes pierced the tires, and the truck lurched violently to one side, but the driver clung to the steering wheel and kept charging ahead.

Thirty meters.

Twenty meters.

A sharp turn lay ahead.

The truck did not slow down.

A deafening roar of twisting metal echoed through the valley. The transport truck flew off the road and tumbled into the deep ravine on the right. Impacts, shattering glass, and tearing metal blended together, followed by a brief silence, then several small explosions—perhaps onboard batteries or electronic equipment shorting out and catching fire.

Flames rose from the ravine, illuminating the rolling black smoke.

Andre rushed to the edge and switched his night-vision goggles to thermal imaging. The truck's wreckage was still burning, and the heat signatures showed that most of the equipment inside had been destroyed. Several faint life signs struggled near the edge of the wreckage—the driver was still alive, but badly injured.

"Call for medical support." Andre's voice was cold. "Target B destroyed. Repeat, Target B destroyed."

He turned back toward the valley. The battle was over. Of the fifteen Hydra guards, three were dead, including the driver who had gone over the ravine; seven were wounded and captured, and five had surrendered. S.H.I.E.L.D. had suffered no casualties. The first transport truck had been seized intact, but the equipment in the second truck—believed by intelligence to include rare isotope materials and precision instruments—had become burning scrap.

Andre removed his mask and let the icy mountain wind strike his face. The mission was complete, but the cost was steep. He looked eastward, where the horizon was beginning to pale.

Dawn was approaching.

Hydra base, command center.

It was 8:20 a.m. The news had arrived an hour earlier through an encrypted satellite channel, sent directly to Fletcher's terminal.

The command center was deathly silent.

Fletcher stood before the holographic projection table, staring at the loss report displayed above it. His face was bloodless beneath the blue-white glow. Seven or eight mid-level officials stood around him, including representatives from both the Radical Faction and the Resource Faction. No one spoke. Only the low hum of cooling fans and someone's heavy breathing could be heard.

"A team of fifteen." Fletcher finally spoke, his voice dry. "Three off-road vehicles. Two transport trucks. Equipment manifest..." He pulled up the file. "Two cryogenic plasma containment devices, confirmed destroyed in the crashed truck. The gene sequencing platform was seized intact. Rare isotope materials... completely destroyed. Radioactive contamination confirmed."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across everyone present.

"A S.H.I.E.L.D. reconnaissance squad. Four people. Zero casualties."

"That's impossible!" The Radical Faction representative—a bald, middle-aged man—slammed his hand on the table. "Our guards were all elites! How could four people wipe them out?!"

"Because the guards were thrown together at the last minute!" The Resource Faction representative immediately fired back. "The command was chaotic, communications were poor! And who gave the order to launch the transport by force? Who bypassed standard procedure and sent personnel with no joint training on a high-risk mission?!"

"If it hadn't been for your leak, how would S.H.I.E.L.D. have known the transport route and timing?!"

"A leak? I'd like to ask what those forged communication logs were about! Did your Radical Faction want to swallow this equipment from the beginning and deliberately create chaos?!"

The argument erupted again. Voices echoed off the command center's metal walls, harsh and disorderly. Fletcher watched coldly without stopping them. He needed the quarrel to continue long enough for the anger and accusations to ferment fully.

Five minutes later, he raised a hand.

"Enough."

His voice was not loud, but it carried unquestionable authority. The argument gradually subsided, and everyone turned to him.

"The losses have already occurred," Fletcher said. "The issue now is not blaming each other, but how we report this to headquarters." He pulled up a new file and projected it into the air. "This is the preliminary report I compiled. Before submitting it, I need everyone to confirm several facts."

He pointed to a section of the report.

"First, regarding the intelligence leak. Over the past seventy-two hours, this base's intelligence department—specifically the team led by Captain Lin Xiao—did indeed detect anomalous signals. These included irregular access records on encrypted channels and signs of unidentified personnel operating in the border region. This information was reported to base command in accordance with procedure."

Several officials exchanged glances. They remembered that report—Lin Xiao's "Regional Security Situation Assessment," which mentioned "possible reconnaissance activity by external forces." At the time, most had dismissed it as routine overcaution.

"Second," Fletcher continued, "before the transport team departed, Captain Lin Xiao suggested strengthening coordination training among the guards and proposed postponing the transport plan until a safer window. That recommendation was not adopted."

It was true, but Fletcher had repackaged it. Lin Xiao had indeed mentioned that "the guard teams need time to work together," but it had been during an informal discussion and about an entirely different mission. Yet none of the officials present remembered the details that clearly—they only remembered that Lin Xiao had been very "active" lately, making quite a few suggestions on security matters.

"Finally," Fletcher's voice lowered, carrying just the right amount of regret, "although we detected signs of a threat, we failed to identify it in time as an organized S.H.I.E.L.D. operation. The intelligence analysis was misjudged, resulting in insufficient countermeasures. This is our responsibility."

He paused, allowing those words to settle into the air.

Then he looked at the Radical Faction representative. "But the forced launch of the transport plan, the bypassing of standard procedure, and the use of an uncoordinated escort team—these were the direct causes of the expanded losses."

Then he looked at the Resource Faction representative. "And there was clearly a breach in the secrecy surrounding the transport route. Otherwise, S.H.I.E.L.D. could not have ambushed us so precisely."

He withdrew his gaze and looked at the report in the projection.

"I will report every fact truthfully to headquarters. Including our monitoring results, our errors in judgment, and... each party's responsibility."

The meeting room fell completely silent.

Fletcher began drafting the official report. His fingers tapped across the keyboard, each phrase chosen with deliberate care. He placed the "monitoring results" from Lin Xiao's team in a prominent position, supporting them with objective data and records. He described the "failure to identify the threat in time" as "an insufficient time window for intelligence analysis," implying that the outcome might have differed if they had had more time. He attributed the transport team's crushing defeat to "the convergence of multiple factors"—external threats, internal coordination problems, and poor decision-making under emergency conditions.

Once the report was complete, he had every official present sign it for confirmation. No one objected—in the face of such a disastrous defeat, having someone step forward and organize a report with clear logic and divided responsibility was already the best possible outcome.

Electronic signatures lit up one after another.

The report was sent.

Headquarters' response arrived at 2:00 p.m.

Fletcher read the encrypted document in his office. Sunlight streamed through gaps in the blinds, slicing bright bands across the desk. Dust drifted slowly through the shafts of light.

The document was short, but its wording was severe.

To the Resource Faction: A formal reprimand was issued for "inadequate implementation of security protocols" and "serious lapses in transport confidentiality." Relevant personnel were suspended pending investigation.

To the Radical Faction: A severe warning was issued for "unauthorized changes to the operation plan" and "disregard for standard operating procedures." Schmidt was ordered to submit a written self-criticism, and his decision-making authority over transport affairs was temporarily frozen.

To Fletcher's base: Its "vigilance regarding the regional security situation" and "timeliness of intelligence monitoring work" were recognized. Regret was expressed over "the failure to prevent the losses," but given "the sudden nature of the threat and the complexity of intelligence analysis," no accountability would be pursued.

The final section was listed separately:

"Additionally, Lin Xiao (ID HYDRA-EUR-047-382) and his team are granted a 'noted' level of recognition for their recent performance in security monitoring work. The monitoring reports submitted were of high quality and demonstrated a certain level of intelligence analysis capability. Continued investment in this area is recommended."

Fletcher finished reading and closed the document.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. The office was quiet enough for him to hear his own heartbeat. It had worked. The plan had worked. A crushing defeat had been turned into "merits offsetting faults," and Lin Xiao's name had formally entered the view of headquarters' mid-level management for the first time.

A "noted" level of recognition—in Hydra's bureaucratic system, it was not any kind of substantive reward, but it was a signal. It meant the name had been recorded. It meant that the next time there was an opportunity for promotion or a special assignment, someone might remember it.

Fletcher opened his eyes, activated his communicator, and entered Lin Xiao's channel code.

"Come to my office."

By the time Lin Xiao entered Fletcher's office, it was already 3:00 p.m. The sun was beginning to set, and the light in the room had softened. Fletcher had not turned on the main lights. Only a desk lamp was lit, casting enormous shadows against the wall.

"Sit." Fletcher pointed to the chair opposite him.

Lin Xiao sat down. He noticed a paper document spread across Fletcher's desk—in this digital age, that was rare, usually indicating that the document was extremely important or sensitive.

Fletcher pushed the document toward him.

Lin Xiao took it and skimmed through it quickly. His gaze rested on the final passage concerning his own evaluation for several seconds before he looked up.

"What do you think?" Fletcher asked.

"As expected," Lin Xiao said calmly. "Headquarters needs someone to bear responsibility, but it does not want to widen the fallout too much. Spreading the blame around and punishing everyone equally is the safest approach."

"Your name was mentioned."

"I saw."

"Do you understand what that means?"

Lin Xiao nodded. "It means I've entered some list. The next time they need someone 'capable but with a clean background' to carry out a dangerous mission, I might be chosen."

Fletcher smiled. There was a trace of exhaustion in it, as well as appreciation. "You see things clearly." He paused. "But it is also an opportunity. In Hydra, if you want to rise, you either have connections or achievements. You're beginning to have the latter now—even if indirectly."

"What about the transport team?" Lin Xiao changed the subject. "How will the survivors be handled?"

"The wounded are in a local hospital, guarded by our people. The captured..." Fletcher rubbed his temples. "S.H.I.E.L.D. will not release them easily, but by convention, they will be exchanged through certain channels. It will take time. The equipment losses are substantial, especially the isotope materials. Schmidt's project in the Middle East will be delayed by at least half a year. He'll go mad."

"Will he suspect that we were behind it?"

"He'll suspect everyone," Fletcher said. "But the key is that he has no proof. Those forged communication records have been completely erased, and S.H.I.E.L.D.'s operation really was based on anonymous intelligence—the source cannot be traced. The entire affair looks like an unfortunate coincidence: the Radical Faction took a risk, the Resource Faction failed to maintain secrecy, S.H.I.E.L.D. happened to intercept the intelligence, and we... simply weren't lucky enough to stop it beforehand."

He looked at Lin Xiao. "You did very well. Every part of it was just right."

Lin Xiao did not respond to the praise. He looked out the window, where the setting sun was sinking and the sky had turned orange-red. The base's simulated weather system appeared to be synchronized with the real world's time, and the "sky" outside had begun to change color as well.

"One more thing," Fletcher said. "Headquarters has asked us to submit a detailed follow-up security reinforcement plan. I intend to have you draft it. This is an opportunity to demonstrate your abilities."

"Understood."

"Go on." Fletcher waved a hand. "That's all for today. Rest well. Start work tomorrow."

Lin Xiao rose and left. The corridor was quiet, with most personnel already off duty. His footsteps echoed across the metal floor, clear and lonely. He returned to his office, closed the door, and did not turn on the lights.

The room sank into dimness, with only the simulated sunset filtering through the window and casting a rectangular patch of orange-red light across the floor.

He sat behind his desk and activated the data terminal. The screen lit up, blue light illuminating his face. He pulled up the encrypted communications interface and checked every preset channel. Everything was normal. There were no irregular access records.

Then he noticed an unread message in his inbox.

Time sent: Thirty minutes ago.

Sender: Unknown number. Encryption protocol level: A-class, nonstandard Hydra format.

Status: Decrypted. Automatic decryption key matched.

Lin Xiao clicked it open.

The message contained only one sentence, displayed in standard English:

"Good luck. Keep it up."

There was no signature, no context, and no further instructions.

Lin Xiao stared at the words for a full minute.

His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but in the end, he did not reply. He closed the message window, cleared the decryption cache, and logged out of the system. The screen went dark, and the room fell back into gloom.

He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Outside, the simulated sun completely sank beneath the horizon, and night fell. The base's lighting system activated automatically, and a faint electrical hum came from the corridor. Somewhere in the distance, a laboratory was still running, its low equipment drone faintly audible through the walls.

Lin Xiao opened his eyes and looked at the ceiling in the darkness.

"Good luck," he repeated softly. His voice was almost inaudible in the empty room.

Then he smiled, faintly and fleetingly.

Keep it up.

Of course he would.

The game had only just begun.