1885, I came to save Greece

Chapter 65 Hell's Gathering! An Ace Team Composed of "Trash"!

Berlin, the night is as dark as ink.

In a guesthouse at the Krupp factory in the German Empire, Joannis Metaxas suddenly sat up in bed.

The urgent knocking on the door startled him from his reverie about the impact of rapid-fire cannons on the war.

Upon opening the door, a man in plain clothes with an unfamiliar face handed him an encrypted telegram from the Royal Palace of Athens.

Metaxas closed the door, quickly lit the kerosene lamp, and with trembling fingers, translated the telegram word by word, according to the codebook agreed upon with the Crown Prince.

Under the lamplight, his expression grew increasingly solemn as the telegram's contents were deciphered, eventually transforming into an irrepressible fervor and excitement.

The telegram's content was very simple:

First, utilize all connections to secretly recruit two experienced Prussian "Jägers" instructors, preferably veterans of the Franco-Prussian War who have retired for various reasons, under the guise of "Prussian manor owners hiring private security instructors." Competitive salaries will be offered, regardless of cost.

Second, these two individuals must arrive in Athens within three weeks.

Third, this matter is top secret.

Hunter!

The elite of the Prussian army!

They are scouts, sharpshooters, and infiltration experts! They excel at small-scale operations and are proficient in combat techniques in complex terrains such as jungles and mountains.

Metaxas instantly understood the Crown Prince's intention.

What Your Highness wants to build is not a ceremonial guard dressed in gorgeous uniforms, marching in formation in the square.

Rather, it is a hunter-killer unit capable of infiltrating the shadows and carrying out missions with precision, efficiency, and lethality!

Metaxas no longer hesitated. He held the telegram to the kerosene lamp, watched it turn to ashes, then quickly changed his clothes and disappeared into the Berlin night.

Meanwhile, in Athens.

An invisible intelligence network, centered on Constantine, quietly spread to every corner of the Greek kingdom.

The network was managed by a group of inconspicuous attendants and messengers around the Crown Prince, as well as some low-ranking officials who had received favors from the royal family and were absolutely loyal.

Their mission was singular: to secretly select the most suitable candidates from the national military and police systems.

The selection criteria were completely opposite to those of conventional officer selection, and could even be described as unorthodox.

They had to be born into commoners, or even the poor. This meant they had a natural hatred for the old aristocracy and oligarchs, and no vested interests with them.

They must have real combat experience. They must have actually seen blood and fired guns in past border conflicts and battles to suppress bandits, rather than just talking about it on paper in the office.

A strong sense of ambition and resentment is essential. The best candidates are those "troublemakers" and "useless individuals" who, due to their straightforward nature, have offended their aristocratic superiors, or have had their merits stolen and have been suppressed and ostracized due to a lack of background.

Secret orders were issued one after another, and lists of names, like trickling streams, converged on the Athenian royal palace from all corners of Greece.

A few days later, a thick list, which had undergone preliminary screening, was placed on Constantine's desk.

Constantine flipped through the pages one by one. The names and ranks were no longer cold and impersonal, but rather vibrant souls filled with struggle and resentment.

—Dimitrios Papadopoulos, Corporal, 26 years old. Son of a shepherd on the Thessalian border, a natural-born sharpshooter. In a conflict with the Ottoman border guards, he once killed their commander with a single bullet from 800 meters away. However, because his superior, a noble lieutenant from Athens, lied and claimed responsibility, he not only received no commendation but was also reassigned to guard an abandoned munitions depot for "unauthorized firing."

—Nicholas Costas, former Athens police chief, 35 years old. A commoner by birth, he is a brilliant detective who once single-handedly cracked a major smuggling case involving a member of parliament's family. As a result, the very next day, he was transferred to a remote island in the Aegean Sea to take on a sinecure as a lighthouse keeper.

—Yannis Lagudas, former Marine Corps Sergeant, 30 years old. An Ionian, fearless and valiant. In a raid against pirates, he led a squad to destroy a pirate hideout of nearly a hundred men, sustaining three stab wounds himself. However, the credit for his victory was entirely claimed by the ship's captain, a distant relative of a shipping magnate. After recovering, he was forced to retire for "disobeying orders and recklessly advancing."

……

Each person on the list is a diamond buried in the sand.

They are capable, courageous, and spirited, yet they are relentlessly suppressed at the bottom by this corrupt system, with no hope of ever rising above their circumstances.

A cold smile curled at the corners of Constantine's mouth.

The "waste" discarded by the old world is about to become the sharpest "weapon" in the new world.

Over the next few days, a series of secret "interviews" were quietly conducted in an inconspicuous carriage shop on the outskirts of Athens.

Constantine changed into casual clothes and personally interviewed ten of the core candidates.

Faced with these troublemakers who were either unruly, disheartened, or full of suspicion, Constantine did not promise any high-ranking positions or generous rewards.

He simply slapped the blood-stained tax officer's injury report in front of them.

He simply laid bare for them the bloody truth of how oligarchs drained the nation's lifeblood and displaced its people.

Finally, he stood up and glanced at everyone.

"I cannot promise you money or status. I can only give you a chance."

"An opportunity to personally cleanse this filthy country, an opportunity to make all the parasites who ride roughshod over the people pay the price."

Former Inspector Costas stood with his arms crossed the entire time, listening to Constantine's "lofty talk" with a face full of sarcasm.

"Your Highness, let's not talk about this. I've seen through it all long ago; this country is rotten to the core. Do you want me to be your dog, to bite another pack of dogs?"

Constantine wasn't angry; he simply pushed a file in front of him. "This is the complete case file of the smuggling case you investigated back then, including the part that your superior hid."

Costas froze, opened the file, and grew paler with each page, his hands trembling. It contained irrefutable evidence he hadn't found before, detailing how the smuggling network channeled profits to several members of parliament and Zaimis himself.

"They ruined your career, destroyed your family, just to cover it all up," Constantine said calmly. "I'm not asking you to be a dog. I'm giving you a knife, to carve your name on the names of those who destroyed you and are destroying this country, one by one, and then send them to hell. Do you dare take it?"

Kostas raised his head, his eyes no longer filled with mockery, but with a raging crimson flame. He did not kneel, but stood up and extended his hand to Constantine: "Your Highness, where is the sword?"

Constantine cleared his throat.

"You will all become a sharp blade piercing the heart of the old world. Your enemies are the most powerful, richest, and most ruthless people in this country. Every action you take could lead to your death."

"Now, anyone who wants to withdraw can take the 10,000 drachmas on the table and leave. I guarantee that no one will know anything about what happened tonight."

No one moved.

The carriage shop was deathly silent.

The flames were rekindled in those souls that had been suppressed for too long, in those eyes that had been tormented by injustice and humiliation to the point of near numbness!

It's the flames of anger!

It is the flame of revenge!

More than anything, it is... a flame of hope!

Sharpshooter Dimitrios was the first to step forward. He didn't look at the money on the table, but instead knelt down on one knee with a "thud" and placed his right hand on his chest.

"Your Highness! You gave me my life! I would gladly shoot through hell for you!"

"I am willing to die for Your Highness!"

Former Inspector Costas, combat hero Lagudas... everyone stood up after kneeling, expressing their long-suppressed loyalty in the most resolute and fervent way!

One week later.

A core group of about fifty members of the "Royal Tax Police" quietly assembled under the cover of night.

The darkness was their best disguise. Former Inspector Costas leaned down and made a "pause" gesture. He pointed to an inconspicuous ship repair shop in the corner of the dock. "That's 'Crippled' Harry's territory. He's one of Zaimis's men and keeps three vicious dogs. We'll go around to the west side; that's the fish market, and the fishy smell will mask our scent."

They secretly moved to a royal estate outside Athens that had been abandoned for many years.

They were greeted by two Prussian "Jacques" instructors who had just arrived in Greece, with eyes as sharp as hawks and a strong smell of blood on their bodies.

There was no opening ceremony or mobilization speech.

Training began the moment they stepped into the manor.

A brutal, bloody, hellish training regimen, capable of driving anyone mad, officially began in this secluded manor.