Chapter 131
Chapter 131
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Translator: Ryuma
Chapter: 131
Chapter Title: What Happened in the Western Lands (2)
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It was back when I was in prison.
A shared cell for six or seven inmates. Inside, there was every kind of misfit imaginable, and occasionally, you'd even spot one of those so-called "inklings"—highbrow intellectuals scraping by.
The inkling in my cell, Room 7, was dubbed Professor Kim. He specialized in political science, with a focus on China.
"So, the brass's kid over there is sweating bullets. You hear about the mess in Xinjiang lately?"
Professor Kim had been a lecturer at some university in Busan. Instead of sticking to teaching, he'd dipped into illegal local government grants and ended up in prison stripes.
"That suppression footage on the news? Turns out a French resource company's employee shot it, kid."
His lecturing skills, honed from paid speeches, hadn't faded. He'd yap whenever he got the chance in the cell.
As usual, his words didn't land well. The boss—a middle school dropout gangster—had zero patience for that brainy crap.
*Smack!*
A threadbare pillow sailed through the air and nailed Professor Kim in the head.
Then came the boss's gravelly voice, fresh from waking up groggy.
"Hey, Professor Kim. Can't you let a guy nap without busting my balls every damn time?"
*Sniff!* "Sleep? You can sleep all you want when you're dead, kid. I'm begging you—fill that thick skull with some culture."
Was it that inkling arrogance?
Professor Kim couldn't see past his nose, gangster or not. Naturally, it ended with a knuckle sandwich from the boss.
"What, you really gotta disrespect your elders like that? Get over here. Huh? Run if you want—I'll drag your ass back!"
* * * *
"...Yeah. That's how it was back then."
"Huh? What'd you say?"
I'd been lost in memories of my pre-regression days for a moment.
But Kim Won-cheol seemed unwilling to even grant me that brief reverie.
On the plane beside me, the bald uncle shoved his face right up to mine over my absentminded mutter.
"Ugh, back off with that shiny dome—it's too much."
"Man, you're not some old-timer reminiscing about his first love. What's with the long face on a young guy like you?"
"Similar, but the memory's from a different angle."
"Well, love makes fools of us all. Anyway, what're we gonna do? Bin Salman said China's not gonna sit idle."
His concern hit home.
I'd already shared every detail of my chat with Prince Bin Salman. The Canal conflict was spiraling out of control.
But...
"I've got a plan. Already issued separate orders, too."
"Separate? To former President Lee Tae-gyu?"
"Not him."
Even in this tangled web of giants, solutions always emerged, just like always.
My gaze drifted to the dedicated satellite phone mounted on the plane wall.
If it rang—from that one person only—it'd slot the key puzzle piece perfectly into this messy picture.
And right then.
*Rrring! Rrring!*
A French stork delivering the awaited piece.
The sat phone blared urgently. Get it now, it urged—straight from the western edge—and dive into the grand game.
"Perfect timing on the call."
"Who...? Michel, the president?"
Kim Won-cheol's instincts were razor-sharp.
Instead of answering, I grabbed the ringing phone and flashed a grin. Added with utter confidence.
"China won't borrow Islamist extremist hands in Malaysia or anywhere. This call lays the foundation."
* * * *
"Yes, yes. Chairman. Yes, understood. We'll handle it that way."
Michel's mind raced with unprecedented complexity during the call with the Chairman.
A lifelong electronics engineer, he struggled to grasp this Go-level strategy.
It had ballooned beyond companies—to nations, the world itself. All under his young lord's fingers.
"Any word from the Saudis...? Ah, you'll handle it personally. Yes, sir."
A tightly woven board of puzzle pieces.
Michel stifled his awe, phone to ear, and side-eyed the person beside him.
A gaunt, tiny Uyghur girl fixated solely on his lips.
"The girl for the witness role is fine. Yes, of course. No worries. Goodbye, sir."
*Click.* Call ended.
Even in Korean, she'd caught the gist from his tone.
The girl questioned him haltingly in broken English.
"Did... it go well?"
Her pumpkin-colored eyes seemed darker today. Far more than typical East Asian black.
She looked like she'd endured horrors, biting her lower lip hard.
Burying pain beneath a stoic facade, she clenched her hands on the armrest.
"I'm ready. I left all hesitation back there."
"Don't worry."
Her disheveled hair draped under a haphazard hijab.
Michel adjusted it himself with his hands and spoke to her.
With more conviction than any words he'd ever given her.
"Our Chairman Han Seo-jun... has never failed at anything he's set out to do."
* * * *
Urumqi, Xinjiang Uyghur Autonomous Region. After the brutal unrest, vicious rumors followed in its wake.
"My god, you hear about that?"
A half-collapsed grocery.
A girl picking up an apple perked up at the adults' whispers.
"Those protesters nabbed that day. They're in some re-education camp—old military base, they say."
The shopkeeper whispered low, fearing eavesdroppers.
A regular customer covered his mouth, replying softly.
"Heard. Word is, they're rounding up families too. Jeez!"
Armed police marched past outside in sync.
The girl's hand trembled on the apple—not fear, but indescribable rage.
"Is it... true?"
"Kid, hush. Cops just passed. Anyway..."
The shopkeeper peeked outside, checked the empty street, then answered.
"My buddy's cousin got grabbed mid-protest. Then... his whole immediate family got dragged to that camp."
"......!"
Shock blurred her eyes skyward. Hot tears soon traced her cheek.
"Daddy... Brother..."
Her brother, taken during the protest.
Her father, vanished without trace last night.
She'd braved the PSB office, only to get kicked hard.
The heavy scar-pain in her gut resurfaced as the shopkeeper wiped her tears.
"Aw, kid. No matter how sad, not here. Go home. Quick."
"Poor thing. Another family hit. What a mess."
Vision blurred, she followed familiar steps to her empty home's yard.
Before the house whipping with lonely sand gusts, she collapsed in despair.
"If only... a way to save Dad and Brother..."
The mosque call to prayer—silent now, though time.
Kneeling on bare dirt sans mat, eyes shut, she poured her soul into a plea.
"Just once, grant me a chance. To erase this hell I've entered..."
Did it reach the heavens?
Suddenly, two shadows over her head.
"This girl... a victim's family from the forced camp?"
A stranger—a Westerner—asked the white man beside him.
The white man nodded instead. He managed her father's company.
She'd seen him on errands. Stunned, she stared.
"Why... are you here...?"
He extended a hand to her dazed face.
Michel wiped her tears with a handkerchief and spoke.
"Stand up, child."
Then added:
Hearing it, she vowed silently: follow this man—and the "one" he spoke of.
Proof her wish had pierced the sky.
"I've come on orders from the one who'll help you... and save your family."
* * * *
*Thud. Thud.*
Blades thunked into a rickety plank door.
The Islamist extremists, groomed by Malaysian intel, were rough.
Even before James Wang, the bigwig from China, they showed no manners.
"So, you want us heading to Thailand?"
"Yes. Hit the southern canal site, crush the locals by force."
"Hmm. Convenient."
The extremist leader stroked his bushy mustache.
Eyes mad with zeal, he slapped the Quran and smacked his lips.
"Locals there are Western-tainted lately. Time to whip 'em with Sharia."
"You handle that as you see fit."
Even with Taliban time in Afghanistan, these guys were another level.
Turbaned, he spoke with pious gravity.
"I need nothing else. Just Allah's teachings—forcing Islamic life on them."
"......"
"So... no nitpicking from China later."
No need for nitpicks.
It was a distant fringe, not mainland China.
James Wang shook his head at the fanaticism.
"How you manage the masses is your business—we don't care."
"Fine, then."
They hashed out details routinely after.
James Wang exited past the blade-riddled door, sighing at the crazies.
"Mad zealot bastards... Whatever."
Unease settled on his shoulders. Shaking it off irritably, he muttered to himself.
Like self-hypnosis.
"Just get past this. A butterfly's flap in the far West won't reach here."