Doctor, Martyr, and Terrorist (17)
Linfei, who had been desperately holding out to avoid losing consciousness, finally surrendered to her lust once I methodically piled on the indirect stimulation. For someone whose addiction had progressed so deeply, she'd endured remarkably well. I tossed the now-unconscious Linfei onto the bed and kept watch over the unfolding situation, dozing in fits and starts by the minute.
The U.S. President, who had abruptly halted the motorcade parade amid the cheers and returned to the White House, unleashed a fierce condemnation of the Desert People's terrorism—something he'd clearly been bottling up for a long time.
"Whether anyone was hurt or not, this is a blatant act of terrorism! No matter what flowery rhetoric those barbarians attach to it! They've vandalized roads built with the taxpayers' money! They've unlawfully occupied a key U.S. national asset! And the fact that they've instilled fear in innocent people through violence doesn't change!"
"As President sworn to uphold America's laws and order, I take this opportunity to reaffirm the ironclad principle: no negotiations with terrorists! My administration will never bow to the barbaric threats of guns and bombs under any circumstances!"
By all common sense, such a hardline stance could have waited until every hostage was released. Why risk flipping the board with premature provocation when the terrorists had already publicly pledged to free the hostages without negotiation?
But.
'If he prioritizes political gain over citizens' lives, that's a different story.'
Was the White House Madman just a fool stumbling into this? Unlikely, though not impossible. No, that was far too naive an analysis. In my view, he was deliberately baiting them—goading the enraged Native American activists into emotional violence. Even if they just mishandled the hostages roughly, it would create the perfect pivot for public opinion.
If their shouting and screaming got caught on the hostages' cameras, at least the president's base would solidify, railing against the barbarians' savagery. That alone would justify a firm federal crackdown. Democracy doesn't require unanimity, after all.
These Native American youths—undereducated, raised in harsh environments prone to hot-bloodedness—were prime candidates to snap and reveal their "savagery" in a heated moment. Could Mashath keep them reined in?
Even the world's elite special forces had defied direct White House orders before, causing scandals. How disciplined could an activist group of Native youths really be?
The president kept prodding their sore spots.
"What the hell is this 'Man in the Maze' anyway? Is that a god's name? To me, it sounds like some Disney ride! Don't you all agree?"
"That's right! It's nothing but the barbaric primitive faith of savages! A outdated myth not even fit for children's fairy tales, a shoddy belief without any system—and they're too foolishly conservative to abandon it even today!"
"Between a holy site from a primitive religion that claims coyotes scattered the stars in the night sky, and an observatory that scientifically observes those stars to advance civilization—which should we protect?"
"We must not yield to this anti-intellectualism! We cannot decide civilization's regression with our own hands! Abandoning that facility at their demand would mean forfeiting America's leading position in global astronomy!"
It was amusing to see a man who'd ignored public health guidelines, skipped masks, and held massive rallies now decrying anti-intellectualism and Native primitiveness.
"I have to wonder: Do they even seriously believe their own nonsense? Or is it just a show—pretending to uphold tradition to squeeze out more money?"
"I guarantee they know how absurd their stories are!"
"That cactus they claim is possessed by ancestors? Last year, what those savages really wanted to protect wasn't some pathetic plant—it was the smuggling route for drugs and illegal immigrants! I have evidence of Native involvement in organized smuggling crimes!"
No surprise there. The Chief despised cartels, but with over 20,000 tribe members, dissenters were inevitable. Poverty breeds vice like a swamp. There had been those greedy elders who'd sold off sacred lands before; plenty of small-timers would peddle drugs for cash. Even during the tribe's worst addiction crisis, most street-level dealers were likely locals.
Who knew? Maybe some vengeful Native dealer among them, high on self-righteous delusion, funneled drugs to torment the invading whites.
The president pressed on.
"Their demand to 'return the sacred mountain' is just as pathetic!"
"Their council overwhelmingly approved selling it back then! We have the records—the contracts signed by the tribal elders! I don't know if you savages still clinging to oral myths even keep your copies, but that's your problem, not ours!"
"What's the difference between that and whining for a refund because you sold cheap and regret it? Why not demand a buyback at purchase price for devalued stocks?"
"Let me say it again: No compromise! America's proud observatory will fulfill its role there forever, and those ignorant armed robbers will pay for their crimes!"
With that final outburst, the president stormed out without taking questions. His staff and security scrambled after the striding commander-in-chief.
I half-wanted to applaud the lone wolf's back. Perfect fury—a solid ten out of ten. So predictably on-script it was almost laughable.
Kyung-tae had offered to preposition men for an escape assist if things went south, but I'd shot it down. No need to risk further tails for mere convenience.
'They need to suffer and struggle. That's how you forge rabid predators.'
The escape itself would serve as the first selection test and talent pipeline. Low yields in training were par for the course. Still, with the board I'd set, their survival rate would far exceed nature's lottery.
Best case: All the occupiers martyred. Die on-site or rot in uniquely American torture-prisons—either worked. That tribal fury would ignite fiercer collective action.
Mashath might fall if she lost control of the rampaging militants, but who cared about the informal chief's fate? As long as one branch of the tear-soaked Native diaspora path led to me.
If this panned out, I'd worry far less about the scale of my direct strike force for London.
Man's work done; the rest was up to heaven.
The next day, as Linfei left Korea, she caught her story on the morning news and stayed tense until the airport. Yet she couldn't skip duty-free shopping—what courage.
Spotting the Korean traditional medicine shops crowded with foreign tourists, Linfei grumbled.
"Do Koreans even have the right to call me a culture thief? Korean herbal medicine is just a sloppy knockoff of authentic Chinese medicine, isn't it? Where's the 'Korean tradition' in any of that?"
She sighed in frustration before continuing.
"Donguibogam? How's that obscure rag better than the Yellow Emperor's Inner Canon? I hear Japan's cashing in on 'Korean medicine' too. Everyone's desperate to steal Chinese culture. It really gets to me..."
Still muttering complaints, Linfei hurried toward a shop selling local herbs and raw medicinals. Her target: goral tusks.
To Koreans, gorals were just pests smashed by cars or ruining crops. Globally, though, they were endangered, found only in China and Korea. Their byproducts—especially tusks—were hot commodities.
Chinese penchant for ingesting rarities plus shamans' markup on scarce ingredients fueled demand. Government-backed product development helped too—few other exploitable bio-resources around.
Even in this off-peak tourist zone, officials with badges in pockets escorted groups of foreigners. Linfei tilted her head at the white-robed black figures.
"What are those niggers in white doing? Why's everyone bowing and scraping?"
Racial slurs from Chinese mouths were hardly novel.
"Ignore 'em. Probably low-rent shamans."
Judging by attire and gear, Santeria priests, nine times out of ten. Born from Yoruba faith (dragged as slaves to the New World in imperialism's heyday) blending with Catholicism.
Their magic had briefly piqued the Round Table's interest alongside pure Yoruba rites—maybe preserving Golden Age scraps like ancient India's Yoga Sutras. Nada, in the end.
The interpreter cautioning shop staff in Spanish for the priests:
"Do not piss these folks off. Got it?"
The clerks' overly cautious, fearful nods spoke volumes. Magic's mystique weighed heavier these days. Who wanted a shaman's curse?
Linfei flinched at "shamans," glancing at me.
"Low-rent shamans...? Oppa, you're not scared of those types?"
"What kind of business could I run if superstition bound me?"
"Still... they creep me out."
Not just talk—she avoided anyone she'd dubbed "nigger" earlier, tiptoeing like they'd vanished. Wouldn't approach desired items if a Santeria priest lurked nearby.
Irritated, I fetched her picks myself per her orders.
"This it?"
"Yes!"
"Can't you get this in China?"
Linfei pouted discontentedly.
"As humiliating as it is, domestic stuff's full of fakes and non-wild. Hygiene's iffy too... So better buy ingredients here. Modern herb shops even compound on-site from your raw stuff. Gotta watch they don't swap 'em sneaky-like."
Even for her post-90s generation, faith in domestic goods wasn't absolute.
Despite slim tourist crowds, the herbal shops buzzed with new faces. Stark proof of the media hype around the qi industry's boom.
Seeing shamans mimicking doctors wield this influence? Time to tighten internal discipline.
"...?"
Heading to checkout, my eyes met a black-skinned shaman holding dried goral sinew—separate from the Santeria group. His yellowed whites bored into me; he pointed and bellowed.
"Un mal espíritu dentro de él! Un mal espíritu dentro de él! Un mal espíritu dentro de él!"
The tirade didn't stop after one. Translation: "An evil spirit inside him!"
Frightened by the pointing and stares, Linfei clung to my arm, whispering.
"Wh-what's he saying?"
"...Beats me."
I paused before answering, wondering if the old coot had pierced something. But.
'No way.'
If he'd truly glimpsed my abyss—soul or mentor's remains—he'd have fled in terror, not yelled.
Thus, the geezer's finger-pointing was just a fraud peddling potions and fear—picking me at random from the crowd. Coincidental bad luck.
How dare a pathetic fake-shaman con artist target me.
I felt my mood sour deeply.