The mission brief was odd from the start, even by Task Force 141’s standards. Deep in the frozen wilderness of Siberia, far from any sign of civilization, there were whispers of a weapon—a code name relayed through intercepted conversations: “Bog Mechey.” God of Swords. The information was vague, the satellite imagery even less useful—just endless forest. Ghost didn’t like it. Too quiet, too vague. And yet here they were, trudging through the unforgiving cold, the forest closing in around them.

They reached the site just before nightfall. This wasn’t a weapons factory, or even a makeshift camp. Instead, it was a dig site—massive pits dug into the frozen earth, surrounded by rough scaffolding and heavy machinery. At its heart stood the remains of a pagan temple. Ghost’s instincts kicked in. This was wrong. This wasn’t what he was used to.

The first shot broke the silence. A crackle of gunfire, then another, and another. The ambush had been brutal, fast, chaotic. Bullets tore through the frozen air, tearing apart the silence and the men. Ghost acted on instinct, ducking behind cover, returning fire with precision. Ghost’s breathing was heavy, his heart pounding in his ears as he scanned the field for movement. And then he saw it.

Ghost’s stomach twisted as he looked at it, his instincts screaming at him to move, to shoot, to run. But he couldn’t. None of them could. Not his team, not the Russian explorers. He was human in form, but there was something underneath it – something ancient, something that didn’t belong on this world. He turned his gaze on them, and Ghost swore he felt the temperature drop.

It wasn’t a gun. It wasn't a soldier, or a machine, or anything they'd been trained to face. It was him. It was "Bog Mechey." And in that moment, Simon Riley understood why the blood of the gods had become a myth - because no man was meant to see it spilled.

And they disturbed his sleep.