#17. Fragrance of Rebellion (1)
The Black Sea Party and Mao Gong Alliance's all-out assault commenced on New Year's Eve. I stood at the edge of the helipad on a hotel designated as one of the temporary outposts, surveying the nightscape of the darkened city from above. In Dongguan's northern urban district bordering Guangzhou, waterways snaked through in chaotic profusion. Three major streams over five hundred meters wide, slender tributaries each a hundred or two hundred meters across, all interconnected in a labyrinthine terrain. Becklux had entered the southernmost large tributary and was now refueling near the maritime police bureau's anchorage, having summoned a tanker.
Full-scale combat hadn't broken out yet, but from the collective mana fields stirring across the city districts, I could tell the Black Sea Party had finally mobilized.
There's a lot of them.
The headcount of awakened ability users was staggering. Individually subpar, but their sheer mass could crush the military and police through brute scale alone. An outsider might wonder how such mobilization was possible, but I had no trouble grasping it. Dongguan held the highest concentration of impoverished rural migrant workers on the entire continent.
Just over a decade ago, this city had been dubbed the heart of Chinese manufacturing. Labor-intensive by nature, the industry demanded cheap hands in droves, and the economic zone—designated by the Communists as a grinder for workers—sucked in villagers like a black hole abandoning their homes. Even after manufacturing's collapse, those migrants still filled over half the city's population. They formed the endless recruitment pool for the Black Sea Party.
Natural awakeners couldn't control their mana fields and thus had no way to conceal themselves from fellow ability users. Once the gang detected an open-circuit migrant worker, they'd swarm and force a binary choice: join or die. Unless the worker was deranged, they'd choose enlistment—especially with resentment already boiling from recession, wealth gaps, and class discrimination.
Then they'd melt their brains with cash bundles, agitation, and drugs.
The military and police had tried identifying recruits by injection scars, as in past crackdowns, but it was futile. For poor migrants, selling blood for meals was routine. There was no recovery period for such desperate blood sales; yesterday's donor could give again today. The resulting scars were indistinguishable from drug tracks.
"Let's go."
I turned from the night view and boarded the idling medium helicopter. Equipped with a situational control data-link system, this chopper was command authority itself, borrowed from Gao Xusen. It enabled direct and indirect influence over all of Dongguan's military and police forces.
As the command heli lifted off, my subordinates' choppers—waiting atop other skyscrapers—revved and rose in unison. Most temporary bases were luxury hotels with high floors.
"Data extraction's underway, right?"
The subordinate at the data-link console nodded. "Yes, sir! Transmitting to Becklux now."
"Good."
China's remote command systems—hardware configs and software data—would fetch top dollar anywhere. Korean agencies like the NIS and Security Support Command would bite first. Trivial compared to raiding Communist nobles' vaults, but enough to bonus the crew and still turn profit.
Gao Xusen had originally offered trained operators. "Unfamiliar system; you'll need pros," he'd said. But it wasn't unfamiliar at all. When I casually operated the console on-site, he panicked.
"How do you handle it so easily?"
Copied interfaces from other nations, simplified to simplified Chinese. Odd for a weapons smuggling vet like me not to know. Weapons systems evolve convergently anyway—latecomers ape the leaders. Like smartphones converging functionally regardless of maker, weapon classes share components across developers.
"Feels familiar. Call it an arms dealer's seasoning."
Considering face, my tactful dodge made him cough and flush. He knew "Made in China" originality was a myth.
That's why Chinese weapons data sells: stealing their thefts is less risky than direct from Russia or the US. If pressed by origin countries, just say, "We got it from China!"
With doors open to the sky, fierce winds whipped inside. Kyung-tae, scanning outside through his headset, squinted. "Hyungnim, this bird's sluggish as hell. Shoulda skipped the overload..."
"Worried about ambushes with me here?"
"Can't know what Al Qasim's smiths cooked up. Quad AA popping out? Headache. Your telekinesis coating blocks it, sure, but tracers bouncing everywhere screams 'here we are.' Witnesses complicate things."
Tracers glowed trails like laser lines, gauging night hits. Anti-air drums always mixed them.
"Doesn't matter. Spot first, shoot first."
This command chopper sported an unorthodox pair of door guns: twin medium machine guns protruding from side doors. I'd ordered them myself for hands-on fire. Time crunch left welds sloppy.
No time for verbal spotting. Better to hose tracers myself, marking foes. Risky drawing eyes, but acceptable. Portable laser rangefinder spat GPS coords too, but machine-gun fire beat it for visibility and snap response.
Other heavies loaded too: high-velocity grenade MG, AT rockets, anti-materiel rifles, semi-auto grenade launchers with pinpoint long-range. The grenade MG weighed fifteen kilos alone, but Kyung-tae or I handled it fine handheld.
Thus stuffed to gills with arms and ammo, the chopper lumbered under weight—for minimal command gaps during resupply.
"Bad juju starting out, but..." Kyung-tae scratched his cheek, grenade launcher in hand. "Worst case, chopper downed—you safe, right hyungnim?"
"..."
This guy. Forced to hide my presence, even inner circle like Kyung-tae only grasped my grand magus prowess superficially.
"Not just me—all of you. Minus me, brace for some broken bones."
Kyung-tae visibly relaxed. "That's fine. Long as hyungnim's good, we're golden."
Us be damned. If losing them all, worth risking exposure to max mana circuit output. Could delay crash, warp trajectory. Airspace freer for mana fields than ground. Buoyancy via telekinesis within natural limits. No eyes? Even engine-out, no plummet.
Rotor intact, even better. Undamaged rotors autorotate to safe landing sans magic.
"Navigation's mine now."
Pre-arranged. Pilot eased grip; I activated telekinesis incantation, invisible force coiling the stick, spreading across fuselage. High-grade telekinesis became a sense organ; chopper motion synced precisely to my will.
As expected—distracting, but doable. Hand back to pilot if focus lapsed.
Flying evoked North America's wild boar hunt. Triple the helis then, prey countless more now.
I finally sighted first target, thumbed door-gun trigger.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Explosive roar drowned turboshaft whine. Crimson destructive beams lanced from muzzles. Converging to points afar, they punched faded slate roofs, pummeling vehicles and humans below.
----!
Lightning-struck yelps inaudible. Drivers belatedly cranked engines—too late.
"Two, joining."
"Three, joining."
Modern helos were cavalry's heirs. Pre-hunt, I'd ordered swarm tactics: disperse, converge on attack.
Flankers piled fire; most roof-hid armed vehicles shredded instantly. Of ten, only two bolted doors. One veered wildly into a wall.
KABOOM!
Crumpled ride erupted—ammo cooked by tracers.
Last survivor: rear gunner frantically cranking weapon. The quad AA Kyung-tae feared. But manual crank aim? Crossfire pulped him bidirectionally.
Driver now exposed to Five's block-fire. "Awakened" heavy armor? No match for near-20,000-joule big-bore bursts.
BRRRRT!
Counterfire erupted. Building- and alley-lurkers hosed skyward. Sloppy stances, trash aim. Numbers grazed hulls anyway. But outward telekinesis field on fuselage shrugged small-arms fire.
Prime environment for wide mana fields. Ignored chaff; better prey beckoned.
BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!
Glowing slant hammered derelict factory. Inside decayed plant: hundreds awakened cattle the Party had painstakingly herded.
Lure military, mass-release. Machine-gun sweep panicked herd into frenzy. Rusted machines and welded girdles buckled under stampede pressure.
Armed handlers amid drugs and syringes in central aisle—swept flat by lone raging bull.
"Cease fire!"
Support guns cut. Black bulls gored wildly, collapsing factory wing. Hundreds of tons biomass burst dust clouds, rampaging lit roads and streets.