MYSTERY OF SAINT HILLER DORMITORY

“I was trapped in the heart of battle for months on end, with no time to search for Silvester and Linda,” James Nkono began, his voice low and edged with memory. “The war was a tangled storm of chaos. Even now, I can't say for certain who was fighting whom—or why. I was nothing more than a pawn... just one soul tossed about in the fury of the First World War.”

Brian sat frozen, his eyes locked on his grandfather. This was more than history—it was the hidden truth that had shaped everything, from the world he lived in to the blood in his veins.

“I obeyed the orders of General Yuri Medladov,” James continued, “and others like him. We moved across frozen forests and crumbling cities, from the icy trenches of the Carpathians to the humid swamps of the south. My rifle hung over my shoulder, but truth be told—I never once fired it.”

Brian blinked. “Never?”

James shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “My duties kept me mostly in the rear lines—assembling equipment, preparing rations, hauling medical crates. But soon enough, I was asked to do more… and it wasn’t long before I found myself dragging the wounded from open fire or burying the dead by the dozens. Some nights, I couldn't tell if it was rain or tears on my face.”

Brian leaned forward slightly, feeling the heaviness of the war press against his chest.

“One evening,” James went on, “I was resting in a bombed-out garrison in Galicia, a place no map seemed to remember. The wind howled through the cracks in the walls. The others were asleep. But I couldn’t close my eyes. That’s when I saw them.”

He paused.

“Two figures. Standing at the edge of the clearing, watching me like ghosts.”

Brian frowned. “Soldiers?”

“No,” James said, his voice thick with reverence. “They were something else.”

He described the two men vividly—one lean and sharp-eyed, wrapped in a kimono, with a katana strapped across his back. His name was Han Han of Shandong. The other, darker-skinned, wore a vest made from tiger hide, yellow and black, his eyes fierce as fire. That was Chandra, from the mountains of Arunachal.

“They looked like they had stepped out of a myth,” James said, his gaze distant.

Brian sat up straighter. “What did they want?”

“To test me,” James said. “To see if I could be trusted.”

Chandra approached him first, speaking fluent English, his tone respectful. They talked for hours that night—about the war, about home, about life. Over time, Han Han joined in too. Slowly, they let James into their world.

“I learned they were elite guardians,” James explained, “sent by Admiral Kogyo Yamada, a man the East revered like a god. They weren’t there for the war. They were there for something far older—something hidden beneath the smoke and ash.”

Brian’s eyes narrowed. “Like what?”

James hesitated. “They didn’t say. But I suspect it had something to do with ancient forces. Things we in the West have forgotten how to see.”

He smiled again, remembering.

“One day, Chandra offered to teach me martial arts. Not just how to punch or kick—but how to understand the body, the breath, the rhythm of survival. At first, I thought it was useless. I wasn’t a fighter. But he insisted.”

For weeks, James trained. At dawn, he would stretch his limbs until his muscles screamed. At noon, he practiced blocking, breathing, balancing. By night, he meditated beneath the stars, legs folded, mind blank.

“And the strangest thing happened,” he said, glancing at Brian. “My strength multiplied. My focus sharpened. I could walk for hours without tiring. I began to move like a man ten years younger.”

Brian grinned, impressed. “Did you ever get to use it?”

James’s smile faded into something solemn.

“I never used it to hurt. But I used it to survive.”

He told Brian of a night when their camp was ambushed. Bullets rained down like locusts. Screams tore through the darkness. James had been carrying a wounded soldier on his back when it began—but somehow, he moved through the chaos untouched. Bombs exploded. Bodies fell. Yet no bullet struck him. Not one.

“It was as if something invisible guided me,” he said softly. “As if the meditation, the training, had awakened something ancient inside me. A field of protection.”

Brian sat in silence, awestruck.

But James wasn’t done.

“Chandra and Han Han didn’t just teach me martial arts. They taught me how to control my thoughts. How to listen to silence. How to hear danger before it arrives.”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “And before they left, they gave me a gift.”

Brian raised an eyebrow. “A gift?”

“A promise,” James said. “If ever I needed them, I only had to clap three times and say their names. Then they would come.”

Brian stared at him, unsure whether to laugh or gasp. “Did they?”

James gave a half-smile. “Not right away. I tried it once, twice, many times. Nothing. I told myself it had been a farewell ritual, a beautiful myth. But then one night, they appeared… in my dream.”

“A dream?”

“More than a dream. It was vivid. The room around me changed. I was standing in a bamboo grove, the moon overhead. Chandra said, ‘We are not bound by distance, only by timing. When the time is right, we will return.’”

Brian’s skin prickled.

“And did they?”

“Yes,” James whispered. “In flesh and blood. Months later, they arrived at my doorstep. I was living in the ruins of a village, helping rebuild it. One evening, I heard a tiger’s roar. I ran outside and saw him—Chandra—transformed into a great striped beast.”

Brian’s eyes widened. “The tiger…”

“Yes. The same one you once saw beside me, near the old orchard,” James said calmly. “You thought it was a hallucination.”

“I… I remember.” Brian’s voice was barely audible.

“There are forces in this world,” James said slowly, “that defy logic. But just because you don’t understand something, doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Then, James’s voice shifted—more serious now.

“After the war, I returned to my mission. I scoured cities, burned villages, and refugee camps, searching for Silvester and Linda. And finally, in a villa outside Minsk, I found them.”

Brian leaned in.

“Silvester had joined a traveling orchestra, playing violin with elegance and fire. Linda was seventeen, more beautiful and kind than I had remembered. They were safe. And soon after, they were married.”

Brian’s mouth opened in surprise. “They really… loved each other?”

“Truly,” James said. “Silvester made a vow to Lord Konstantin to protect her. But it grew into something much more.”

Brian could feel the warmth of that long-ago love glowing in James’s words.

“But peace never lasts,” James said. “Not in this world.”

He told Brian how, when Linda was two months pregnant, news came of Lord Archie William Thompson—Silvester’s childhood friend—being murdered at his estate in Belgorov.

“Silvester insisted on attending the funeral. ‘It is my duty,’ he said. ‘I must pay my respects.’ I begged him not to go. But he was determined.”

Brian’s voice broke the silence. “Did he ever come back?”

James looked at him with eyes as heavy as stone. “No.”

Brian’s throat went dry.

“Before he left, he said something I will never forget: ‘If I do not return, take care of Linda. And the child she carries.’”

James placed a hand on Brian’s shoulder.

“You are that child. And now the burden—no, the mission—has passed to you.”

Brian’s heart pounded.

“What am I supposed to do?”

“Find the truth,” James said. “About Lord Archie. About Belgorov. About your father’s fate. You must go where he went. Follow the trail. The answers are waiting.”

Brian was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Why me? Why not someone else?”

James smiled, as if he had been waiting for that question.

“Because you are your father’s son. And destiny does not knock—it chooses.”

Brian looked down, gripping the journal in his lap.

“I don’t know where to start.”

“You will,” James said. “In time.”

Then Brian lifted his head slowly and asked one last question.

“Grandfather… you’ve never told me how you came to Europe. You’re not from here, are you?”

James let out a low, amused laugh. “Ah… now *that*, my dear boy, is a story for another night.”