Doctor, Martyr, and Terrorist (9)
Even after I'd sweet-talked the governor into keeping the bureaucrats away from my private land, trash kept showing up every damn day, trying to cross the boundaries and hassling my security team's men.
These weren't the type bound by any legal authority or contracts—not even a speck. There were just too many of them to kill one by one. Sure, I had the ability, but a spike in missing persons would trigger a massive investigation, plain as day.
Casualties and disappearances during high-risk hunts seemed natural enough at a glance. But if a specific area started racking up an unusual number, it would draw public eyes and official scrutiny no matter what.
So I usually let the minor pests live and sent them packing—wheeling and dealing, or just shoving a gun in their faces to scare them off. But the real idiots who wouldn't listen? A quick death and burial near some awakened beast was the cleanest way.
"Oh, come on, is this your forest or what? Huh? Is it?"
The ringleader of today's doomed morons thrust his chin out at my men blocking his path, barking his nonsense.
"Our prey that we've been chasing all day is in there, got it? If you want us to respect your rights, show us some respect too! Our private property is in there!"
Private property? Déjà vu hit me hard. Claiming ownership over prey they hadn't even caught yet—this idiot's sophistry reminded me of the "Dutton Volunteer Cavalry," who rode in on helicopters only to get trampled to death by an awakened wild boar.
"If you've got mouths, use 'em! Even in a game, stealing someone's kill is bad manners, but fuck, taking what we've already cornered just 'cause it's on your land? That's not human!"
Accusations that we were just netting fish someone else herded in with a fixed net over vast land. It sounded reasonable on the surface. My private forest was so huge that around here, profitable hunts were tough without crossing my borders.
But it was still bullshit. If hunting here was hard, go somewhere else—that was normal. Persisting for over a week meant some ulterior motive lurked beneath.
"Don't be like that. Open your land to us, yeah? We'll manage the hunting grounds together, patrol to keep thieves out, contribute to public safety! Trust me, even if it feels like short-term losses, partnering with us pays off long-term! You have no idea how many landowners regret not taking us up sooner!"
My men listened to this endless drivel in silence to buy time. The woodlands around headquarters were laced with a surveillance net I'd built over years that could outlast dynasties.
Small high-sensitivity radars with about 250-meter detection ranges, paired with thermal cameras, wired and wireless, blanketing the entire private forest like a go board.
Recently, we'd even layered on machine learning, making it near impossible for outsiders to slip past my men's eyes and infiltrate HQ.
Yet these fools slated for death today had wandered deep into the woods. We'd let them, on purpose.
"We're ready."
The earpiece crackled with the all-clear—perimeter secured. I didn't need the report; I'd seen it with my own eyes.
"Begin."
My low command set the young Uyghurs in motion—these hunting dogs for whom this was their first true man-hunt.
"It's almost Lunar New Year, no need to be so stingy, let's both win here... Huh?"
The idiot leader, mid-rant, caught the shift and whipped his head around. Sharp instincts.
Thud-thud-thud! Muffled, bassy shots filtered through suppressors.
Maryam Group's firestorm slammed into the idiots' formation. Thirty-nine heads, spread in a depth formation braced for clashes with my men—but zero prep for flanking and rear attacks.
Over half, twenty-one, crumpled dead in an instant. Still, I narrowed my eyes slightly. First shots rarely fill the belly, but their hit rate fell short of expectations.
"Ambush!"
The idiots reacted fast—spinal-reflex quick, like men who'd survived three or four kill-or-be-killed scraps. Even in this backwater country, remote wilds were bloodbaths where rival hunter packs fed their greed on each other.
Rule-abiding hunters or bandits turning rogue hourly—survival in that mix meant bulking up.
"Fuck! What the hell? Nobody said they had guns!"
One prey's shocked scream. His body ducked behind cover on instinct, but his face screamed denial.
No wonder. Air rifles or low-power small-game shotguns? Maybe. But in Korea right now, groups packing helmet-piercing firepower numbered three kinds: elite awakened cleanup crews on special government gigs; military special task hunter platoons; or real-deal criminals tied to smugglers.
Turf wars among other hunters devolved to brawls in armor—firearms regulated, but gear? Wide open. Imported vests and plates boosted survival.
So the prey figured they'd poked the wrong crazies.
"Gahk!"
One trying to counterattack clutched his neck and dropped. Sniper round shredded his carotid—blood pulsed through pressing fingers. Dead before five seconds ticked by. Loaded crossbow clattered down.
Classic battlefield blunder: brain freeze leading to dumb moves.
"Fucking shit!"
A gear-laden prey screamed, pale as death—wail or order, who knew.
"Blood Pact! Blood Pact, rally here! Blood Pact brothers, help me!"
Blood Pact. Local hunters loved weird names for their crews: blood pacts, guilds, clans, crews. Kyung-tae had one-worded it for me when I asked.
"That's the trend, hyungnim."
Online game culture, apparently. Pointless chasing fads. Games here were just legal scams in disguise, far as I knew. Weird seeing middle-aged hunters play along too.
Thwip! A blind bolt ripped past nearby air. Blurry even to my eyes. The crawler who'd flipped to loose it mid-reload took a round to the ear—dead before he hit dirt.
Ditch the poke, focus on flee and cover, he'd have bought seconds.
Despite the one-sided hunt, prey held longer than expected. Cover, terrain folds, Maryam Group's green shooting, and awakened beasts blindly reacting to bolts, arrows, bullets.
"This way! Covering fire, fall back!"
"Come on, you fucks!"
Maryam Group's net, guided real-time by my men, had three gaps—block friendly fire, split the enemy. No escape without pursuit. None leaving my domain alive.
From my training overlook, I shifted slowly with their moves, telekinesis pulling a masterless bow to hand. Quiver too.
Confirm kills, test archery while the rest wrapped up.
"H-heek, h-heek... hiiik..."
Dying moron spots the telekinesis, eyes bulging in primal fear. Nocked an arrow, aimed at the gasping fool.
Twang! String release out-roared suppressed shots. High-tensile steel limbs lived up to awakened gear rep—brutal draw weight.
Long-shaft arrow buried fletching-deep. I frowned at the miss.
"Heek, heek, hiiik!"
Target thrashed in seizure at the near-hit. Fifteen meters, yet two fists left. No archery training, but should've nailed it.
Underestimated it?
Bows without pulleys dodged gun laws. Perfect for max legal power. Government quick on hunter certs, sluggish on arms reform—status quo for now. Reusable arrows too; ideal for remote ops anywhere.
Might need one someday. Nocked second.
Twang!
"Grak, hiiiiaak!"
Unintended nail-through-palm. Hit, but way off target. Kevlar-piercing shaft left three-quarters protruding like a stake.
Prone crawler twisted in agony.
"S-save... me... please... kuh-haaaah!"
Third to shoulder blade.
"Save... heek... h-heek... hurts..."
Begging through leaking breaths, tears at fourth nock. Live targets felt better. No mercy for trespassers.
Twang! Gut-puncher. Broad, barbed head shredded organs, shockwave churning innards—like gel-block high-power rounds.
Telekinesis yanked first arrow—humming free of dirt. Nocked on death's door, prey sobbed eyes shut.
"M-mom..."
Twang! Vibrating limbs. Fifth tip blasted nose to frontal lobe, out the forehead. Intelligence vaporized—dumb beast sensing pain only. Minutes from death.
Firearms? Easy. Bows? Trickier. More practice, basics would click. Eyeballing draw per arrow rivaled high-power rounds. Solid awakened weapon.
Draw length limits power curve's slope late-game, but skilled hands could wreck. Hard to gauge visually—perfect for feints or hides.
I mulled as the endgame unfolded. Escapees hadn't made fifty meters before cohesion shattered—survivors scattering solo.
Awakened speed hopping cover bedeviled the Uyghurs, green on controlled ranges. Why the hunt dragged.
Their faces burned with venom. Some red-eyed shame—failing in my gifted grounds. Maryam gnashed at misses.
Expected more.
Mid-January to early February, I'd mandated thousand rounds daily per Uyghur. This fell short, even for first hunt. Wasted steps.
But not wholly dissatisfied.
"God is great! In the name of the All-Seeing One!"
All-Seeing: Al-Basir, one of Allah's ninety-nine. Me, here. Fiery Uyghur youth battered wounded prey to pulp—faster than reloading bolt-action.
Charge backed organically by squad cover, unscripted yet seamless. Such teamwork dotted everywhere.
No solo runs in first blood—battle frenzy awareness of mates, poised for next. Top marks.
Rookies not self-absorbed? Gold. Faith-bound siblings' unity...
Felt it again: they tested my restraint. Tempting the line I'd drawn. Fanatics worshiping me as god—prime tools. Knew downsides of zealot packs, yet tempted still.
Post-hunt, I debriefed personally. Green Uyghurs hung on every word, focus unbreakable—model students.