"A dog tag is just a dog tag." Arnold Ray said impassively, a trace of disdain in his eyes.

"You bastard!" The fat cop stepped forward, jabbing a baton into Arnold Ray's stomach forcefully.

Feeling intense pain, Arnold Ray was knocked to the ground, his head hit the wall, his face turned gloomy but his breathing became steady. In a cold, low voice, he said, "If I were you...I wouldn't do this."

"What are you mumbling?" The young cop pushed him further down.

"Chatter... chatter... chatter..." The fat cop ignored his words, rudely opened another metal box, and dumped its contents on top of a pile of yellowing letters.

Each small piece of metal, oval-shaped on one side with a small hole drilled into it, was engraved with small characters. The larger metal box held hundreds of these dog tags, to be exact, military identification tags.

The front of each tag bore a name and enrollment date while the back showed information about the soldier's unit and blood type. Soldiers usually wore these ID tags as necklaces…

If a soldier were injured in combat, medics could use the information on his dog tag to identify his blood type and name, enabling them to administer blood transfusions quickly and saving valuable time in the process.

However, most often, these tags served to identify the remains of those torn apart by war, confirming the identities of those who had fallen.

One small metal box was crammed full of hundreds of these dog tags...

The names of Arnold Ray's comrades-in-arms were inscribed on each one, including those from his first year of training, the two years of campaign, and even seasoned mech drivers from seven years ago. The common denominator was that they had all been killed in combat.

These represented only a fraction of his comrades-in-arms, those lucky enough to have their dog tags retrieved. The ones whose bodies were torn apart by shells and couldn't be found, or those whose bodies were burned to ashes...the list was endless, and hundred boxes wouldn't be enough to contain all their tags.

Besides the letters from his family, these dog tags were the other treasures he had kept since his retirement.

Seeing them brought back memories of blood and metal hardships, and precious lessons. They were mementos of battles they had fought together, comrades who shared food, fought shoulder to shoulder, and officers who held off the foe for the troops.

Despite the painful memories, they were the only things that connected him to that period of time.

"What kind of crap is this?" The fat cop scrunched his eyebrows looking at the pile of dog tags on the ground.

He had no idea what they were, nor could he understand what they symbolized for Arnold Ray.

These tags represented the departed souls, a testament to a past of life and death.

In Arnold's heart, these tags were sacred, more so than the letters from his family...

"What garbage!" The fat cop raised his leg, intending to stomp on the dog tags in anger.

A sudden spark lit up between the fingers of the boy whose hand was in cuffs, yet it disappeared in a flash.

"Thump!"

However, the foot of the fat cop did not stomp down. His body shivered suddenly, convulsed, and fell backward, motionless.

His obese body writhed like a dead fish, his eyes rolling back in his head as he foamed at the mouth, face distorted, urine wetting his pants in incontinence, a repulsive sight.

The onlookers were taken aback, creating a ruckus, and the young cop, busy pinning Arnold Ray to the wall, was visibly shocked and didn't know how to react.

The sudden fall of the fat cop reminded them of a sudden heart attack...

Silent remained Arnold Ray, kneeling down, saying nothing. He emitted a chilling aura.

"Did you..." the young cop's eyes widened in astonishment and confusion, even fear.In an instant, he seemed to see the red-eyed son of war, whose eyes turned into a swath of purple-blue in a blink, passing by in a flash.

"Did you see what I did?" Arnold Ray asked calmly without turning his head.

"You... senior, are you okay?"

The young police officer immediately let go of Arnold Ray, his face somewhat horrified. Turning around, he walked over to the plump officer, squatted down, pushed the hefty body a few times, vigorously slapped his face a few times, and then performed cardiac resuscitation, pressing hard on the chest.

...He was still breathing, just passed out.

In fact, he just didn't want to make eye contact with the son of war, those bloody pupils made him feel fear.