The Imperial Hunter - Chapter 46: El Maestre (1)

The relationship between Britain and Mexico had traditionally been pretty solid. Britain was the first country to recognize independent Mexico's sovereignty, and while there were some tense times over debt collection, it never escalated to direct ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠military conflict. Even that mid-19th-century friction got sorted out, and from the early 20th century onward, they'd maintained friendly ties. Hell, during the Falklands War, Mexico quietly backed Britain under the table, even while officially staying neutral.

'Funny how they're supporting Argentina now.'

International diplomacy's all like that, isn't it? Ethics are just excuses that fade with time, while interests remain the one eternal truth.

In any case, Mexico-Britain amity only grew stronger into the 21st century. I'd watched with keen interest—hypersensitive as I am to that loathsome island nation's every move—how Brexit left Britain scrambling to salvage things with FTAs from countries like Mexico. I'd hoped every desperate attempt would flop and they'd just crash and burn.

Two days before the cargo arrived in exchange for the submarine blueprints, Mexico's major broadcast channels were flooded with similar breaking news from morning on.

One-third of the city. Impressive, even accounting for the element of surprise. Pushing back cartel lunatics using civilians as shields that fast in urban combat? No small feat.

'No combat footage released, huh.'

There had to be headcam recordings from the fights, but they weren't showing those—or even the cartel bodies. Just dry, nutrient-poor info dumps.

The most useful bit from the news clips was the drone swarms over the city. Even the ones caught in frame rivaled a brigade's assets. They'd allocated unusually heavy recon for city fighting.

Of course, Britain—borrowing power and wisdom from the Round Table of Light and Truth—and the other five nations inheriting their filtered know-how wouldn't expose their forces lightly. Maybe they'd taken unexpected losses clashing with the Knight Commander.

The ability-user special forces footage from each country was most impressive from Britain, decent from the other four FPDA members, and laughably poor from +1 India. Their clip showed a four-layer human pyramid on a speeding vehicle—allegedly shattering India's previous record by two layers and qualifying for Guinness as the largest human structure. Made you wonder why superhuman feats always had to be flaunted like that circus act. Classic Indian showmanship... hard to wrap your head around.

The screen switched to the British ambassador to Mexico spouting nonsense, Spanish subtitles crawling under his posh accent.

What a joke.

I'd barely slept. Maybe thirty minutes at dawn. Yet what I felt wasn't fatigue, but tension. Racing pulse, hotter body temp, dry mouth. Adrenaline from stress. My trembling fingertips screamed survival instinct and seething hate.

The day had finally come. Since my mentor bastard collapsed from exhaustion in my soul's labyrinth, London hadn't loomed this close. I'd spent my life hiding, hiding, always hiding.

This was a curse and a golden opportunity. Kill them without a trace, and I'd shit all over the Round Table imperialists' global projection plans from the start.

'It'll pin their gaze on Mexico for a while too.'

No natural prodigy could wipe out an Awakened group the Masters had seeded. They'd suspect someone with Golden Age's Eye first—my mentor. While they chased ghosts down the wrong path, I'd move freely, prepping my London assault.

Suyeon, scanning my face, asked softly, "Shall I prepare coffee?"

"No."

I needed something else. "Give me some awakening pills."

I carried my own stash for solo ops, but this was different. Suyeon sighed faintly, fetched five 200mg tablets from the gear with a glass of water. Overdose accounting for my enhanced body's tolerance. Rough dosing based on trial, error, and gut feel—no solid research.

"No sleep at all, then?"

I swallowed all five at once. "Gulp." Dryly: "48 hours ahead. Maybe longer."

Provigil—modafinil family, fewer side effects than old amphetamines. Walter Reed Army Institute claimed it enabled 80+ hour missions. "Fewer sides" didn't mean zero risk. Forcing a sleep-deprived brain awake? Bound to have issues. Longer use ramped aggression, muddled logic, even hallucinations.

I'd hallucinated before. Back when the organization was young, and I had to hit risky fields personally. Reality overlaid with mismatched dreams. Flicker, flicker—illusory erosion, brain dozing despite open eyes.

Sleep deprivation was my norm, so I was more vulnerable. Why Suyeon sighed.

The anchor's drone filled the brief silence.

Lost in thought, Kyung-tae spoke up. "Looks like they're deliberately scattering forces, yeah?"

"What do you mean?"

"The Mexican government. When I heard they'd let Sinaloa expand for stability, I shrugged it off as 'Mexico being Mexico.' But now? Seems they baited Sinaloa to split forces, planning to mop up the Knights next."

"...Could be."

I'd reached the same conclusion. With Doble A forward-deployed here, Sinaloa's last major armed wing in core stronghold Ciudad Juárez—Los Mexicles—stood alone among the three big ones.

Los Mexicles boasted near 40,000 on paper, but most were street punks. Real fighters? Consensus capped at under 2,000 militia-grade. They used rare Nahuatl dialects for secrecy, but combat power lagged the other two.

Other armed groups existed, but more like regional drug lords' guards than cartel army. Like Los Ántrax based in Culiacán, Sinaloa's birthplace. Central vs. local forces, with high local autonomy.

'Cops here frozen? President probably didn't plan a trap from day one...'

If right, initial Sinaloa pact was real, but a sweet British offer midstream flipped the script. Swapping knives in "borrow a knife to kill." But long foreign ops burdened any president. With civilian toll mounting, odds were decent they'd honor the Sinaloa deal to wrap quick. Fast stabilization would sell the choice as spot-on.

Fifty-fifty, overall.

Right on cue, the anchor reported backlash against President Obrador. Opposition raged over inviting foreign troops sans congressional approval—even some ruling party joined. But in secrecy? Impossible to pre-clear. Some congressmen surely leaked to cartels.

"Doble A and military/police still in standoff?"

Suyeon nodded. "Yes. Sinaloa senses things turning weird but hasn't decided moves. Probably pulling every Mexico City string now."

She pressed a hand to her ear, focusing on her in-ear receiver, then turned. "Field command report: Satellite photos from 17 minutes ago confirm British convoy left Guadalajara. Heading west on Highways 15 and 70."

"Yeah?"

"Likely chasing the Knight Commander westward."

"I see..."

Three CubeSats orbited as my eyes over Guadalajara: one ours, two ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠via affiliate private firms. At 620km, they lapped Earth every 2h3m, beaming Puerto Vallarta shots. Orbits staggered: 7m30s, 41m1s, 74m29s. That's how updates flowed.

I parted the curtain slit at the window.

"One good thing about this country."

The tense city lay silent, everyone sensing the storm. Even potbellied Perucho hadn't sought Hwang. No motive for citizens I'd fed to brave waves for fish. Not yet.

I leaned on the sill. "It's a hunting ground where cartels take the blame for whatever we do."

Bombs downtown, explosive magic, machine guns and rockets everywhere? Authorities would pin it on some cartel. They all stockpiled that gear anyway. We just needed basic cover.

Sub blueprints or imperialist hunt. I wanted neither slipped away.