Chapter 1390 - 451: Who Am I?

Chapter 1390: Chapter 451: Who Am I?

I had a long dream

Was that a dream?

Maybe it was

But it should have been the most beautiful dream

In the dream, there was a scholar-looking man opposite me, he said

"By accepting this mission, you’ll spend your life adrift overseas, perhaps never able to return to your homeland. Are you sure you’re willing to make this sacrifice voluntarily?"

I had many things I wanted to say, but I couldn’t remember what they were in the haze.

But I clearly remember how I responded

"I can do it, Comrade Kryuchkov. I’m willing to sacrifice for the Soviet homeland."

He had undergone ten years of arduous training at the academy located in Dzerzhinsky, just waiting for this moment.

Full of passionate patriotism.

And that noble ideal, so great that countless people were willing to ignite their lives to fulfill it.

The KGB meticulously orchestrated my identity, starting with the intelligence network in Latin America managed by Teacher Gavilan.

After years of traversing, I became the exclusive photographer of the President of Peru, then was dispatched by the organization to Europe.

I heard the original plan was to go to the United States, but following evaluation, the KGB determined that the future threat from Europe was greater, so the action plan was changed.

My wife and I navigated the circles of European high society, mingling with dignitaries by day, and devising ways to transmit confidential information to Moscow at night.

The longer I stayed here, the firmer my beliefs became.

Though fortune in Europe was within our reach, I knew all too well the rotten stench behind those riches, with every letter tainted by the blood of Third World people.

I firmly believe the Soviet Union would ultimately achieve victory.

Until the flash of nuclear explosion lit up the Middle East, I knew there must have been some development domestically, but things happened too quickly next, and I dared not act rashly.

A traitor might even exist, preventing me from contacting headquarters to inquire about the situation.

I could only abide by the KGB treaty and enter a state of silence.

Later, I learned from the news that Kryuchkov, the former KGB First Directorate Director, who once asked me if I was willing to sacrifice, attempted to organize an uprising, failing to overthrow Soviet Petrochemical’s reign.

The remaining KGB operatives exiled to Europe.

My wife asked if I should contact these compatriots, but fearing there might be hidden traitors among them, I chose to continue laying low.

And they did not come to find us.

This confirmed something for me...

My teacher, my superior, prior to the failed uprising, had destroyed all lists and contact details of deployed agents.

Subsequent events proved I was correct.

Those KGB operatives attempted to incite a mass rebellion in Western Europe, but each time they were caught and targeted, leading to failure.

An inside man is as evident as can be.

Moreover, I believe it would not be long before these operatives are assimilated by gangs.

Then later... and later...

The dream ended.

I saw a body seated in front of a computer

He had white hair, furrowed brows, seemingly contemplating something, pondering a question that would never have an answer, his consciousness forever frozen at that moment.

I remembered his name, he was called

[Mikhail Anatolyevich Vasenko]

Then, who am I?

Who am I?

Ah... I remembered

I am Mikhail Anatolyevich Vasenko

I am an undying KGB ghost.

———

Unsure of which direction to walk, uncertain of where he truly was, all prosthetic programs were locked, signals sealed, with a hood over his head, the foul-miasmic, stuffy air nauseating him.

Lancaster could only hear his own footsteps echoing in the oppressive tunnel.

Only when someone tugged at his collar did he stop, and after the sound of a door opening did they drag him inside, the person behind him roughly yanked off the hood, shoving Lancaster forward.

"Vasenko is waiting for you."

"Who is Vasenko? At least let go of my hand."

Lancaster felt bewildered, turned to run, but the door slammed shut, forcing him back inside.

The surroundings were pitch-black, he wondered, then suddenly the lights blazed, causing Lancaster, whose eyes had been covered, to be momentarily dazed, seeing faintly a person seated atop a box ahead.

He was stout, hair grayish-white, wore a fitted dark round-neck top, with a face of approximately fifties or sixties, expression stern and reserved, gazing at Lancaster with eyes emitting a subtle blue glow.

Lancaster instinctively backed off, but the person spoke.

"I know you, Lancaster, got beaten up enough in Cuba, right?"

That battle was supposed to be Lancaster Family’s triumph, snatching Cuba’s share from the British, if won, he could even become a governor of sorts, but losing so badly, even the media hesitated to mention him.

"Are you Vazkov?"

Lancaster didn’t believe the other met him because of the Cuban affair.

"How much ransom do you want, just say it."

Vazkov ignored Lancaster’s victim talk, queried back:

"What do you think of them?"

"What do you mean?"

"The group you encountered in Cuba, answer my question, and naturally, you’ll be free to go."

Vazkov walked behind Lancaster, unlocked the chains binding his hands with a key.

"Remember, I want your genuine thoughts, not the rumors circulating the media."

"...."

As someone who directly faced that army on the battlefield, currently, no one else in Europe understood them better than he did.