Chapter 1: Betrayal at the Border

The metallic tang of cold coffee lingered on the general’s tongue, the fluorescent lights humming overhead in the makeshift command post as the distant rumble of artillery rolled in from the horizon. On a gray November morning, somewhere near the Dakota border, a general commanding three hundred thousand elite troops received a message from the President’s personal envoy.

The message landed in his hands, heavy as a brick: You are to surrender your military command and return to Washington alone—or else, consider your parents, wife, and children back in D.C. Think twice—accidents happen in D.C. all the time. Families disappear. The chill in the words was pure American politics, the threat lurking just beneath the veneer of civility.

David Turner: "Oh, I know this plotline. Seriously? The old 'betrayed general' routine? What’s next, a time-traveling lawyer?"

1

Sixty-five-year-old David Turner, who had died peacefully of old age, suddenly snapped his eyes open. He jerked upright, heart pounding, the taste of stale hospital air still clinging to his tongue. The world before him spun, and a torrent of memories not his own crashed through his mind. His first thought was sharp and panicked—a flashback to the courtroom battles of his youth in Manhattan.

David: "Damn, it’s my turn again. Wait—why did I say 'again'?"

He rubbed his temples, feeling a phantom ache, like the aftershock of cheap whiskey and bad decisions. Did people actually get thrown into stories like this? Maybe some ended up fighting the Civil War or hustling through the Great Depression. But where was he now?

A voice in the darkness cut in, almost bored: "You’ve landed in the body of a border general. The general commands three hundred thousand troops, but the President is hinting that you’d better hand over your command and return to D.C. alone. If you refuse, he’ll have your whole family killed."

David: "……"

David: "What kind of idiot President is this? Even my dumb nephew would start by quietly pulling my loyal soldiers away. Who jumps straight to threatening my whole family?"

The voice hesitated, then replied, "This kind of President pops up in alternate history, romance, and fanfic novels all the time."

David: "What the hell?"

David: "What are those genres? And why, when it’s my turn, is it never proper history? Who was before me? I’m David Turner, world-renowned—am I not good enough?"

"Well, to be fair, before you it was mostly Abraham Lincoln, and your father."

David: "……"

Silence. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the distant drone of an old box fan rattling—a detail so American, so persistently ordinary, it almost made him laugh.

Fine. David began to sift through the new memories—

When you were a kid, crooked politicians framed you, destroyed your family. If not for then-Governor Jonathan Price’s determined support—digging up evidence to clear your name—you might’ve been left wandering D.C.’s winter streets forever. He remembered those nights: wandering the cold avenues, the Capitol dome glowing through sleet, the sharp smell of roasting chestnuts from a street vendor, hope flickering only when someone in power actually cared.

So of course, you followed Governor Price.

Jonathan Price was seven or eight years older, always treating you like a true little brother. He gave you anything you wanted—stacks of military history books, secret manuals, his eyes bright as he asked if you wanted to learn. Jonathan made the ordinary extraordinary: one spring, he took you to a Nationals game. As the crowd roared, he leaned in and said, "You see that double play, Grant? War’s not so different—everyone covers each other’s backs."

At that age, you just thought Price was a good man, someone who’d never hurt you. You had nothing to repay him with, so you learned whatever he wanted you to. Those days felt golden; you’d sit with Jonathan on the Lincoln Memorial steps, trading dreams beneath the city lights and the distant echo of sirens.

You had a knack for military strategy and martial arts, so Price sent you to the border.

You mastered the art of war. With your rifle, you could take out an enemy commander amidst thousands, sending the invaders fleeing back across the plains. Your fame spread to Washington. The papers called you the "Bulldog of the Plains," your photo splashed across the Sunday front page—broad-shouldered, eyes narrowed, jaw set like granite. Folks in diners from Duluth to Des Moines swapped stories about you over burnt coffee and hash browns.

The President smiled and praised you, the Vice President tried to recruit you, but you didn’t play those games. Naturally, you faced slander, betrayal, and fought alone more than once.

Some of these troubles Price shielded you from; others you overcame by fighting harder, doing more—never letting them see you sweat.

Until three years ago, when Price called you back to the capital. After three rounds of bourbon, he poured out his heart, and you helped him launch a coup on Capitol Hill. Together you took out the Vice President, imprisoned the former President, and made Price the new Commander-in-Chief. You remembered the smoky back room, the worn felt of the poker table, the faint hum of patriotic tunes from a jukebox in the bar next door.

Before Price became President, he looked at you like you were his secret weapon, his last card. It was the look of a man about to pitch the winning idea in a make-or-break boardroom meeting.

After he became President, his gaze grew cold—regret, calculation, even a trace of disgust.

You never saw it coming.

Once in office, President Price arranged a marriage for you—but not to the girl you’d loved back in D.C. Instead, you were married off to a pampered young lady from another powerful family.

But the girl you loved? She became the First Lady. Not yours. His.

……

With the memories sorted, David started to see the script—

From then on, you were trapped in D.C. The only comfort was that your new wife wasn’t the brat the rumors claimed; sometimes, she even seemed to pity you. You treated each other with respect, sometimes as real partners. She kept a jar of strawberry preserves on the kitchen table, and in the quiet hours, you’d share toast and silence, the city’s lights flickering beyond the window.

Yet your memories of married life were always hazy; you knew it happened, but not the details.

A year after your marriage, you had a son. But your wife only grew more anxious.

You asked her what was wrong, and she twisted her wedding ring, eyes darting to the window as if expecting bad news to come knocking. She said that without you at the border, the northern invaders would only grow stronger. If that happened, you’d have to go to war—and if you went, she feared your son would die.

You: *What the hell…*

You weren’t stupid. After thinking it through, you got her meaning. You’d read every military memoir and general’s biography, but still, you shook your head and said, “I trust the President.”

Your wife rolled her eyes, too tired for another fight. She lowered her gaze the way a kid does when she’s been caught sneaking out past curfew, then busied herself by re-folding the already-perfect napkins—a silent act of rebellion, as American as any.

A year later, war erupted on the border. The President finally remembered you, tearfully seeing you off in person, asking you to stop the invading cavalry.

You went, and with a hundred thousand troops, you reclaimed lost ground, seized supplies, took surrenders, and rebuilt, your army swelling with every victory. Even the local homeless wanted in, and you led them to set up military farms so they could eat. On cold mornings, makeshift tents dotted the plains, men and women huddled around barrel fires, hope flickering back into their eyes as your army rolled through.

After a year of fighting, you retook Minnesota, pushed into Dakota, and drove the invaders all the way to the Rockies, out onto the open plains.

Your command now numbered three hundred thousand. The scale was American epic—trainyards filled with supplies, endless lines of troops on muddy highways, kids waving from back porches as your convoy thundered by.

So, as soon as the war ended, the President sent an envoy—bringing personal letters from your entire family, even your two-year-old son. If you didn’t hand over your command, they really would kill your whole family.

You agonized for days, pacing, torn between loyalty and family—until, suddenly, it was over.

……

David: "……"

David: "This guy’s insane! You go back and die with your whole family, then the country gets overrun by invaders? That’s the plan?"

"General Turner, will you return to the capital or not? Please give your answer." The White House aide stood stiffly, voice brittle.

The men around you tried to persuade you. David’s subordinates—the Four Horsemen—each had their say. The First Horseman, a laconic Midwesterner who could take on ten thousand foes, said bluntly: "General, you mustn’t go back. Earlier, the capital cut off supplies, and during the big battle, the Western Army was eyeing us like wolves. The President’s scared of you—if you go back, you’re dead."

The aide sneered, "Since the founding, thunder and rain are all the President’s grace. The President summons the general to reward him. If you dare question him, you know what trouble you’re in?" The words oozed bureaucratic smugness, like someone who never had to shovel his own driveway.

The First Horseman raised his fist, but the Second Horseman—sharp-eyed, Ivy League diction—stopped him.

The Second Horseman, always the strategist, stroked his beard and fixed the aide with a cold stare: "General, there are snakes in the President’s inner circle, sowing discord. We should rally our troops and march on the White House."

The aide shrank back, sweat beading on his brow like a kid caught cheating on the SATs.

The Third Horseman, blue-collar Chicago edge, spoke in a low voice: "Maybe the general should stall. There’s business in the army unfinished. If you don’t return, your family in D.C. stays safe. If the President sends troops, Minnesota and Dakota owe you. Unless he comes himself, nobody can take you."

The Fourth Horseman, the youngest, brash and Gen Z, glared at the aide: "Go ahead, try it—I dare you. If you do, I’ll storm the capital myself and make sure the President never sleeps easy again."

David’s boot found its mark, and the tent erupted in laughter—the kind that only comes when death is close and friendship is closer. The Fourth Horseman yelped and scampered off, the rest of the group grinning behind their hands.

The Second Horseman laughed: "Kid, you have no parents, but the general still does."

After a beat, four pairs of eyes fixed on David—General, what’s the move? The air was thick with the smell of burnt coffee and gun oil, tension sharp as a drill sergeant’s whistle.

David raised an eyebrow, glanced at the aide pretending to be dead on the floor: "Leave him. Let’s go eat."