Rebirth: A Second chance at life-Chapter 133: Code Z

Before One Hour.

On the island, Alfred Frey the old man— the director of the secret lab, was pacing restlessly inside the compound.

Cold sweat trickled down his forehead. "Where are they?" he shouted, his voice echoing off the walls.

Years of work, all the resources, the risks they had taken a few months back—everything depended on this trial.

Now it had been ripped from them.

Alfred’s hands curled into fists at his sides; his jaw worked, hard and slow. Fury burned in his chest.

"Who the hell are these people?" he rasped, voice low and dangerous.

He paced the room, each step sharp on the stone floor.

Paper maps and tablet screens lay forgotten on the table; the lab’s hum felt suddenly thin and useless.

The image of the ruined compound flashed in his head—the collapsed tunnels, the missing files, the empty cages.

It all felt like a personal insult.

"I want them dead," he said through gritted teeth, the words tasting like iron. "How dare they come here and cause this chaos."

He spat the last word as if it offended him.

He slammed his palm on the table. Men froze and drew back from his sudden motion. His eyes were savage.

"Find them," he ordered, voice cold and precise.

"Whoever did this—track them down. I don’t want excuses. I want names. I want blood."

The head of the mercenary team stepped forward, swallowing. "Yes, Master. We’ll gather teams—search the coast and the water routes—"

"No," Alfred snapped, cutting him off. "Not just search.

Hunt.

Be thorough. Make them pay. Bring me the ones responsible. All of them."

The room fell into a tense, efficient silence as men moved to obey.

Alfred stood very still for a moment, breathing hard, nerves raw.

Then, quieter, he added, almost to himself, "They do not know who they have crossed. They will learn."

"And those useless fools—throw them to the beasts in the dungeon," Alfred snapped, a cruel smile breaking across his face.

They couldn’t even make a single serum and still dared to bring chaos.

They’d better be dead," Alfred snarled, fury crushing every calm from his voice.

He let out a short, maniacal laugh that did not reach his eyes.

The sound died quickly. A cold sweat formed at his temples as a different thought slipped in—one that made his smile vanish.

He remembered the mission from months ago, the one he had carried out for someone else: stealing the core formula.

That theft was the reason they had put him in charge.

He had begged and pleaded for the position, and they had finally given it to him.

Now, with the trial ruined, the cost of that favor rose like a weight in his chest.

He reached for the phone on the table and barked orders into it, voice clipped and urgent.

"Get me internal reports. Notify headquarters. Call everyone who matters—now."

A lieutenant moved quickly, fingers already flying across a tablet.

Alfred stood very still, watching the live feeds of the ruined compound.

His mind raced. If the project failed, the people who had backed him would want answers—fast.

If he did not warn them, or if he could not explain what had happened, he knew what would come next.

The consequences would be severe.

His breathing tightened. He forced himself to calm, to plan.

First action: inform his patrons. Second: salvage whatever data they could. Third: find the attackers and make them pay.

He slammed his fist on the table once, hard enough to make the maps jump, and hissed between his teeth, "Move. Now."

"Have you found them yet?" he bellowed again.

A man came running, panting heavily. "Th-they have escaped, Master..."

Before the man could finish, a sharp gunshot cracked through the air. Thud! The man fell lifeless to the floor, a bullet hole between his brows.

Alfred’s face twisted with rage. "Prepare the chopper!" he shouted. "Hunt them down! Kill them all!"

But before anyone could move, the ground began to shake violently.

The noise grew louder—rumbling, crashing, tearing through the earth. Alfred stumbled, gripping a chair for balance.

"Get the helicopter ready—now!" he screamed, running toward the door, his heavy steps echoing across the marble floor.

He barely reached the car when the ground split open. The entire facility jolted, and explosions erupted across the island.

Fire and smoke burst into the night as the structures collapsed one by one. Alfred turned, his face frozen in disbelief.

Within minutes, the island crumbled and sank into the ocean, swallowed by the roaring waves.

Out at sea, Hunter and Knight stood on the deck, watching silently as the island disappeared beneath the water.

They didn’t speak — but the look they exchanged said everything.

It was done.

After they got out of the danger zone where the island had once been, the yacht headed straight toward Country P.

The air was calmer now, though the tension still clung to everyone on board.

Hunter leaned back against the railing and said suddenly, "Boss texted me a few hours ago."

Knight froze mid-step, eyes widening in disbelief.

"What?" He turned sharply toward Hunter, shock flashing across his face.

For a second, something else flickered there too — jealousy.

Hunter caught the flash in Knight’s eyes and couldn’t help but smirk.

"Yeah," he said casually, "she says she misses me."

Knight’s expression darkened instantly, a cold aura rolling off him.

"Hmph!

That brat," he muttered, looking away with a scowl that would’ve suited a grumpy old man.

Hunter’s smirk deepened. He pretended not to notice the faint mix of relief and indulgence in Knight’s tone, but the amusement in his eyes said otherwise.

"She wanted me to find a woman named Abigail Kristoffa. And it’s marked as a Z code."

Knight’s expression shifted instantly, all traces of jealousy replaced by alarm. "Z code?" he repeated, stunned.

In their team, missions were classified by codes — A, B, C, S, and Z — each defining the level of risk and importance.

A-code meant an average assignment.

B-code, more significant.

C-code was tied to internal or technical work.

S-code missions were deadly, meant only for the elite.

But Z-code... that was something else entirely.

It was reserved for Luna’s most dangerous, top-class missions — the ones that involved life, death, or secrets buried too deep for the world to see.

Knight’s brows furrowed as he tried to process it. "A Z-code mission..." he murmured. "That’s the highest level."

Hunter nodded grimly. "Yeah.

Knight fell silent, memories of that night flashing before his eyes. Blood, fire, and the cold efficiency of Luna’s commands.

That mission had almost cost them their lives—including Luna’s.

It hadn’t been an easy battle; they had gone up against clans and gangs that had ruled the underworld for centuries.

She wiped out every last one of them who had a hand in Leonardo’s death.

Everyone had feared Leonardo in his time, and his rise had created countless enemies among those old powerhouses.

Leonardo had crushed one of them before his death, but the rest were destroyed by Luna herself.

She had become their god of death—cold, precise, and unstoppable. No mercy, no hesitation.

Those who once ruled from the shadows now whispered her name in fear.

But the victory came at a heavy price.

Luna had paid for it with blood, sleepless nights, and scars that ran deeper than any wound.

Now she had called for another.

Knight stared at the waves stretching endlessly ahead of them, his mind racing.

Who is this Abigail Kristoffa?

Why would Boss issue a Z-code for her? he thought. Did Boss find a clue about the people who tried to kill her back then?

The sea wind blew hard, but the unease between the two men felt heavier than the storm that had passed.

Knight and Hunter looked around the cabin.

The rescued people were finally asleep, their faces calm for the first time in days.

The sound of the waves outside was steady and soft, a sharp contrast to the chaos they had escaped.

Earlier, the survivors had thanked them over and over, their voices shaky with emotion.

Hunter had reassured them that once they reached Country P, they would arrange accommodation and help each of them return home.

Many of these people had been missing for years—some even declared dead by the authorities after endless searches had turned up nothing.

While they traveled, Hunter worked quietly, collecting as much information as he could about each person.

Most had names, fragments of memories, or places they could recall—but two stood out.

The girl who had fallen sick earlier, and a six-year-old boy who hadn’t spoken a single word since they rescued him.

For them, there were no records, no missing persons reports—nothing. It was as if they had never existed.

Knight walked over to where the girl lay, her breathing slow but steady now.

The fever had finally broken, though her body still looked fragile and thin.

He crouched beside her and spoke gently, "Where are you from?

Do you remember anything about your family?"