The Imperial Hunter - Chapter 159: But God Will Save (14)
As the Black Sea Party's final offensive crumbled across every front, and the Eighth Ironclad Brigade's heavy armored shock cavalry showed no mercy in their surprise breakthroughs and kill confirmations, I spotted a most special prey on the brink of death while crossing the battlefield from above.
The Al Qasim field technician. The site where I found him was deep in the Black Sea Party lines—right in the heart of their camp—near a large auto repair shop on a roadside. This shop had been serving as their makeshift field maintenance depot, but by the time I reached the airspace above, it had already been swept once by the shock cavalry's assault. Yet the technician survived for one reason alone.
He wasn't an Awakened ability user.
At that moment, the Eighth Ironclad Brigade was focused solely on hunting down the Black Sea Party's ability users. They saw crushing the rebels' main force as the top priority for swiftly ending the crisis.
Tactically, it was the best call.
In the already chaotic urban combat environment, complicating orders further would turn quick suppression into a pipe dream. Relying on ability users' unique senses to detect enemy mana fields, charging ahead and prioritizing only those targets maximized the brigade's mobility and impact. It also perfectly aligned with the higher-ups' desire for a debut as explosive as possible.
The heavy cavalry's breakthrough power—leaping over roadside two-story buildings like nothing—had been destructive enough to flip the battle in an instant. Pushing the city front lines back six kilometers in just ten minutes proved it.
That relentless speed chase routed the Black Sea Party, but left no room for delicately picking out high-value targets outside ability user packs.
Lucky me.
"There's some bird-chirping bastard over here!"
"This Allah freak or something? Looks like one of those green-greens."
When he caught my eye, the technician was getting beaten by a gang of looters. These vicious scavengers didn't scatter even as the helicopter approached—they thought they were on the government's side.
They cheered and welcomed the public security chopper landing under their hastily made "Down with the Black Bandits" banner. In truth, it was just a license to loot. Street rats sensitive to the battlefield's flow had swarmed to grab their share.
They didn't flee at the sight of the chopper because they hated abandoning the pricey goods they'd loaded into cars. They'd hastily covered them with clothes, but it was pointless—I could see right through.
The tense group, pretending otherwise, gladly handed over the "Allah freak" when I demanded him without interfering in their pillaging.
"Serve the party and the nation! Serve the party and the nation! Long live the people's army and public security's victory!"
"The party's gonna win in the end! I believed it, damn it!"
"Drive out the filthy foreigners and build a nation for workers and the people!"
The technician, now in my custody, wailed and sobbed in an unintelligible tongue. His nearby comrades had been beaten to death first.
I regretted not arriving sooner as I eyed the three corpses. Securing one was an unexpected bonus, though...
The looters mocked the Muslim's cries invoking Allah.
"Shut that bird noise, you Allah freak fuck!"
"Bird talk" was how Chinese contemptuously called foreign languages they didn't understand—like unpleasant bird chirps. And since "bird" shared the character for "beast," it implied beastly babble.
Xenophobia among Chinese wasn't new. Once it was foreigners stealing jobs or acting superior with their money; then during their homegrown COVID wave, they spread the virus; now it was the world unfairly bullying China. They kept regenerating the hate.
The government fanned it lately. A CCTV anchor openly posted on Weibo, "Time to clean out the foreign trash," and got massive cheers.
Even without external beef, to keep the underclass from swinging toward the Black Sea Party or Maoists, the regime needed slogans and policies to their taste.
I warned the looters dryly.
"Anyone who took photos or videos of these people, delete them now. Or face serious consequences."
That sufficed for evidence destruction. I ordered my men to recover not just the live Muslim but the corpses too.
Burning them would have worked, but to win the technician's goodwill, a simple funeral made sense.
Today was that day.
All cultured Muslims worldwide knew some standard Arabic—Fus'ha—the language of the Quran, the faith's first refinement.
So I conveyed my intent to the Pakistani technician via Maryam as interpreter. I'd hoped for English, but his was abysmal. Probably a dead comrade handled translation, or the Black Sea Party assigned one.
He eyed my motives but accepted—Islamic rules demanded prompt burials.
"Allāhumma-ghfir li-ḥayyinā wa mayyitinā, wa shāhidinā wa ghā'ibinā, wa ṣaghīrinā wa kabīrinā, wa dhakarinā wa unthānā..."
"O Allah, forgive us all, whether living or dead, present or absent, young or old, male or female..."
The technician's self-led imam prayer flowed real-time through my in-ear receiver via Maryam's translation. She was shrouded head-to-toe in a hasty burqa, mic inside, voice lowered—unnoticeable from afar.
The freezer truck corpses, washed per rite, still bore grimy wounds. Fighters left battle scars uncleaned—auspicious scents wafting, helping angels ID jihad martyrs' souls.
After the incomplete burial-free rite, I met the Al Qasim technician in a separate cabin with Maryam.
The pale Pashtun's name was Gohar Rawal.
"I may not fully trust you yet, but thank you for saving my life and allowing my comrades' washing and funeral. The warriors' souls will find fitting rest in Allah's embrace."
Even non-combatants aiding jihad earned "warrior" status.
Rawal glanced at Maryam translating.
"Is she your wife? A lady of deep refinement. First time I've heard Fus'ha so fluently from a woman in my life."
Meriyam's half-university education seemed elite to someone from a land where half the women were illiterate.
Maryam paused; hearing the relayed question, I slowly shook my head.
"No, not my wife."
"Makes sense. A Muslim woman must wed a pious man of her homeland—or it shames her menfolk. So why does she travel with an outsider like you?"
"If I must say, I've taken the role of her mahram—guardian. Not blood kin, but circumstances are complex. Best not pry."
"A mahram? They say you're no Muslim."
"No. But I respect them."
"Respect..."
Rawal paused briefly before continuing.
"At least on the surface. Your shipmates said you saved their lives; Shahidi claims he negotiated your jihad support. True?"
Negotiations, my ass. The hype amused me, but I stayed stone-faced and affirmed quietly.
"Yes."
"Why? Why save them, promise aid?"
"It benefits me."
"How?"
"Sorry, can't say. Bear with me."
Silence fell. His gray-green Pashtun eyes held doubt and unease.
"You summoned me alone because you want something?"
"Correct. Bluntly: I want Al Qasim to weather this trial, keep supplying the Black Sea Party weapons and gear. No—expand it."
"Impossible."
"Too quick a refusal."
"Just is."
"Why?"
"First, mosque-wreckers tightened border watches—hard to send more from home. Second, current crew's battered; output and quality in doubt. Third, grateful for my life, but I lack authority for big decisions."
"Means to contact routed Black Sea Party? Emergency networks for contingencies?"
"...None."
Liar. Taliban foes and constant regime pressure honed such clans' preparedness.
"Mosque-wreckers" meant CCP, of course. My advice to Gao Xusen contributed to that—but no issue for me. Smuggling was my specialty.
I smiled tool-like.
"Guess I show sincerity first."
"Sincerity?"
"Deal: I'll ship you and your comrades' coffins to Dara Adam Khel. Within a fortnight."
"What? Fortnight? Possible?"
"Yes. Then you'll see tightened borders mean nothing to me. You returning alive proves it."
"True, but sending me home contradicts your goal."
"Wrong. Al Qasim's top decision-maker's there, no? Once home, ask the Father of Beauty one question for me."
Father of Beauty—Abu Al Qasim's moniker as head honcho. In clan-based Dara Adam Khel factories, he was chief tech, CEO, and elder.
And elders network.
Silent Gohar Rawal asked cautiously.
"What question?"
"Simple."
I stated flatly.
"How much funding to mobilize not just Al Qasim, but all five great factories of Dara Adam Khel? Ask him that."