The Retired Young Mercenary Is Secretly a Billionaire
Chapter 82: The Fading Picture.

Chapter 82: The Fading Picture.

17 Years Ago — Star Harbor

The gentle creak of the gate echoed faintly through the narrow lanes of Star Harbor. A soft breeze rustled the nearby jasmine shrubs as little Miles walked through the doorway of their modest home—his backpack bouncing with each eager step, his eyes bright with anticipation.

"Mom...?"His voice rang through the empty house, hopeful and curious.

No answer.

He slipped off his shoes and scurried into the hallway, his little feet tapping softly against the wooden floor. The aroma of old books, warm sunlight, and a hint of Elena’s favorite rose tea lingered in the air.

He checked the kitchen.Empty.

A small frown formed on his face. He clutched the school bag tighter in his tiny hands. He turned toward the hallway again, eyes scanning until they landed on the open door of the study.

"Mom?" he called out gently, stepping inside.

There, in the dim amber light filtering through the curtains, sat Elena Sterling. A young woman in her early twenties, still radiating a beauty shadowed by sorrow. Her head rested on her folded arms over the desk, shoulders faintly trembling.

In her hand was a faded photograph—the smiling face of Edward Sterling, her late husband. The corners of the picture were worn, as though it had been held and wept over a thousand times.

Miles crept closer, unsure but brave, and gently touched her shoulder.

"Mom..."

Elena jolted slightly, then quickly lifted her head. Her eyes were swollen and red, streaks of dried tears still fresh on her cheeks. But the moment she saw him, she softened. Her pain folded behind a gentle, weary smile.

"You’re home, my son...?" she whispered.

Miles nodded, his expression filled with concern."You didn’t come to pick me up... I thought maybe you were busy, so Miss Kara dropped me," he said, a little unsure.

Elena opened her arms without a word and Miles climbed into her lap. She held him close—clutching him tightly, as though anchoring herself to the only light left in her world.

"I’m sorry, dear," she murmured, her voice cracking, "I lost track of time... I—I’m not a good mother."

Her tears began to fall again, hot and silent.

Miles, small and thoughtful, fumbled into his pocket. He pulled out a tiny, cartoon-themed handkerchief and started wiping her cheeks with great care, like a little doctor tending to a wounded heart.

"It’s okay, Mom," he said with innocent sincerity. "Miss Kara said... when people cry, they should be hugged."

Elena laughed softly through her tears. Then Miles’s eyes fell on the photo.

He picked it up delicately."You miss Dad, right?"She nodded faintly.

"I miss him too," Miles whispered. "Miss Kara said... he’s watching over us. Like a guardian angel."

He climbed down from her lap and unzipped his schoolbag. With great ceremony, he pulled out his drawing book, flipped through the pages, and stopped on the one he had made just today.

He held it up with both hands and beamed."I drew this in class."

It was a crayon sketch—three simple figures. One small boy in the middle, holding hands with a smiling woman, and above them in the clouds, a glowing figure with wings and a kind smile. His father.

Elena took the drawing, her hand trembling slightly.

A long pause.

Then she smiled, brushing her fingers across the paper as though touching all three of them at once."This is beautiful, my son," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

She reached out and ruffled his hair, gently pulling him into another hug.

And for that moment—amid the grief, the silence, and the ache—the little boy and his mother found warmth

Star Harbor Port — A Few Days Later

The heavy ship creaked as it swayed with the ocean’s rhythm, cutting through waves under a silver-drenched night. In the bowels of the vessel, within a cramped, dimly lit room that smelled of rust and salt, little Miles slowly opened his eyes.

Darkness. Cold steel walls. Silence.

His tiny hands were bound with rough rope. He blinked in confusion. Fear clawed at his chest like a wild animal.

"...Mom?" he whimpered.

There was no response—only the sound of waves thudding against the hull.

His voice trembled louder. "Mom! Mama, where are you?!"

He shuffled backwards, bumping into the wall. His throat tightened. Panic erupted in cries. "MOM!" he sobbed, louder this time. Tears streamed down his cheeks, soaking the collar of his little school shirt.

Suddenly, the rusted door creaked open with a grinding groan. A beam of yellow light spilled in, and a shadow stepped forward.

A bald man with a pirate tattoo across his bicep walked in, the floor thudding beneath his boots. His eyes were cold and distant.

"Hey, little brat. Stop shouting." His voice was rough, like gravel. He grabbed Miles by the arm—too roughly for such a small child—and yanked him to his feet.

Miles struggled, hiccuping from fear, "Let me go! I want my mom!"

The man didn’t care. He dragged him down a narrow corridor and tossed him into another dark room. Inside, dozens of other children sat, some asleep, some dazed, some quietly crying. The moment Miles hit the floor, the ropes around his wrists were cut.

A rough piece of bread was tossed beside him. The metal door slammed shut behind.

Miles curled into a ball, sobbing uncontrollably.

"Mama..." he whispered between gasps. "Please come..."

After a moment, a soft, gentle voice broke the silence.

"You should eat... first."

Miles looked up. Across from him sat a boy, a little older than him, with messy brown hair and dirt on his cheeks. His eyes were warm despite the gloom.

"My name is Dion. What’s yours? Mine’s—"

A little girl beside Dion rolled her eyes. "You’re bothering him."

"What?" Dion blinked. "I’m not bothering him, Flora! I’m just trying to be nice."

She crossed her arms. "You talk too much."

Miles didn’t respond, but his sobs quieted. He looked between them, unsure, but not alone anymore.

Suddenly, the door burst open again. A few more terrified children were shoved inside—some screaming, some silent in shock. The door slammed shut once more with a deafening clang.

Miles trembled again. His fingers clutched the hem of his shirt. He closed his eyes, trying to picture his mother’s face, the sound of her voice, her warm embrace. All he could hear now was the low hum of the ship and distant footsteps on the deck above.

Few days passed aboard that wretched vessel, and each one stole something more from the little boy who once ran home, excited to show a drawing to his mother.

The Miles who cried for Elena that first night was gone.

Now, he sat curled in a corner of the dimly lit room with his arms around his knees, eyes blank, lips parted but silent. He didn’t cry anymore. He didn’t speak. He simply... stared.

Dion and Flora would sometimes try to talk to him. Dion would nudge him gently with half a smile, "Hey, did you eat? I saved half of mine."Flora would sit beside him, her tone softer now, more like an older sister, "You should sleep, Miles. We’re safe for now."

But Miles wouldn’t move.

The laughter of his mother, the warmth of her hugs, the soft voice calling him "my son"—they had all blurred into a memory he could no longer reach. Her face was still there, but faint, as if it were being erased by saltwater and time. Even the memory of Edward’s photo clutched in her hand was slipping away.

He had lost his father.Now, he had lost her too.

And something inside that tiny boy—something essential, something light—shut down.

He couldn’t process it. Couldn’t fight it. His mind did what many young minds do when faced with unbearable pain: it retreated. Into silence. Into stillness. Into survival.

He no longer reacted when the doors opened, or when the guards barked orders.He no longer touched the bread unless Dion placed it in his hand.He no longer remembered his name when asked.

A silent little boy sat among dozens of frightened children.He was just... there.

Still.Empty.Gone, without ever leaving.

That night, silence settled. Most of the children fell asleep from exhaustion or despair.

But Miles lay awake, staring at the metal ceiling above him. His heart ached. His little body curled into a corner.

He could hear something—soft thuds—pacing overhead.

Footsteps.

Unseen. Unwelcome. Unknown.

Suddenly, chaos shattered the dead quiet of the night.

Screams erupted from above—angry, desperate, violent.Boots thudded against wooden planks, gunfire cracked through the night, and the shrieks of men filled the air as children in the dark room jolted awake, startled and terrified.

Dion grabbed Flora’s arm. "What’s going on?!"

Flora held her breath, eyes wide, heart pounding. "Are we under attack?"

The muffled sounds of battle grew louder. Something heavy crashed above them. The children huddled together, clutching one another, their eyes fixed on the locked door.

Then—

Bang!

The door burst open.

Blinding light spilled in as several armed figures stormed the room—men in black tactical gear, rifles slung across their chests, eyes sharp but calm. They weren’t like the pirates. These men moved with discipline. Purpose.

One of them, younger, called out urgently, "Boss Ray! The kids are in here!"

A taller man with greying hair stepped into view—broad shoulders, a scar cutting across his jaw, but his voice was firm and kind.

"Evacuate them. Be careful—they’re fragile little kids. Handle them gently. Put them in the boats waiting outside."

Another man knelt down, gesturing to the group. "Come on, kids. It’s time to go home."

For a second, no one moved. Then, slowly, the children rose—eyes darting around, still unsure if this was another trick. But the warmth in the man’s voice gave them courage. One by one, they began to shuffle out, helped by the mercenaries.

But Miles didn’t move.

He still sat in his corner, eyes blank, hands limp at his sides. The room shifted, the air changed, but he remained a statue in the chaos.

Ray noticed him.

He walked over, crouched down, and said gently, "Hey kid... don’t you want to go home?"

No response.

Ray glanced at Dion, who stood nearby with worry in his eyes.

"He doesn’t talk," Dion said quietly. "He’s been like that for days."

Flora stepped forward, biting her lip. "He used to cry a lot. But then... he just stopped."

Ray looked at the boy again—at the lifelessness in his expression, the depth of trauma no child should ever know.

With a soft sigh, Ray reached forward and carefully picked Miles up in his arms.

"It’s alright," he murmured. "You’re safe now."

Outside, the night wind carried the smell of burning wood and the distant crackle of flames. The traffickers who ran the ship now lay lifeless on the deck, their crimes silenced forever.

The ship that once carried stolen children into darkness now burned behind them—its black smoke swallowed by the sea.

And the children... were going home.