Forgotten (3)
After unloading the cargo and replenishing fuel and supplies, the multipurpose vessel Sapphire Express set sail again, rendezvousing with El Fuego's yacht off the Marietas Islands. Every last bit of cargo from the yacht, hidden in the shadow of the islands, was transferred below deck to the multipurpose ship. The cocaine was no exception. Our organization didn't deal in narcotics, but as high-value spoils of war, we'd decided to hold onto it for now.
A day later, greeting the new morning at a safe house on a quiet beach, I listened as Suyeon detailed the spoils.
"About five tons of pure cocaine, 22 million Mexican pesos and $380,000 USD, 227 kilograms of silver, 45 kilograms of gold, 4 kilograms of platinum, 9 kilograms of palladium, plus some rhodium, bearer bonds, jewelry, and the like. Excluding the cocaine and gems, the current total value comes to $8,227,833—roughly 9.84 billion won."
Valuing the cocaine was tricky. Based on average retail prices in major markets like the US, it amounted to around 15 trillion won, but narcotics carried massive risks and distribution costs, and I had no intention of liquidating it anyway.
I asked Suyeon, "Where's the ship headed now?"
The final hunt at the port hadn't been planned, so the freighter's destination after unloading would inevitably deviate from the original route. As the decision-maker, I'd spent the three days after the hunt in a near-comatose stupor, so Suyeon—the de facto number two—had chosen the next port of call for the Sapphire Express.
"Levuka Port in Fiji," she replied.
Levuka was the old capital of the Republic of Fiji, a small port city facing the southwestern Pacific. I furrowed my brow slightly. I remembered it had a base for maritime smuggling, but it wasn't one we used often, so the details didn't come to mind.
"Is that warehouse suitable for storing the cocaine? I recall a report about it getting smashed a few years back."
"During Typhoon Winston in 2016. Rather than repairing the original damaged facilities, you instructed us to acquire high-elevation sites and build five new disguised warehouses. They're fully quakeproof designs that withstood the 2018 earthquake, so no worries about the cocaine spoiling."
Ah, now it came back to me—the report from back then, how we'd handled it. With my memory sharpened, I spotted a minor inaccuracy in her account.
It was approval, not an instruction.
Suyeon hadn't yet risen to chief secretary then, but the previous one had already earmarked her as successor. He'd called her the kind of talent who made staying in the role too long an act of disloyalty—overwhelmed by her quiet ambition to take his place.
To me, it had looked like the old guy was half-fleeing the position. The Levuka relocation had been spearheaded by Suyeon, already a power player at the time. She'd argued it was ideal: a stopover for distant-water fishing fleets, so foreign ships coming and going wouldn't raise eyebrows; local power could be bought off cheaply; frequent disasters deterred other groups from setting up bases. Invest once properly, and it would be perfect for hiding goods from international investigators.
That fed into the broader plan to reinforce our Pacific island bases, also under her direction. So why frame approval as an instruction? She wasn't one for false flattery. She knew I hated it.
Has her memory rewritten it?
It happened sometimes with subordinates—loyalty so fierce they truly believed their achievements were my doing. A form of psychological dependence. Memory isn't immune to emotion, any more than reason is. Suyeon wasn't exempt.
As that thought crystallized, I realized I'd unconsciously treated her as an exception among all my underlings. Which she couldn't be. That was my own sloppiness as a man.
Misreading the lengthening silence, Suyeon asked, "Should we change the ship's course?"
"No."
Shaking off the reverie, I shifted to neutral ground. "What's the ideal use for this cocaine haul?"
"Two options at present," she said, answering as swiftly as ever. "First, offload it in a block deal to a specific group as a cash substitute. Bratskiy Krug or Yamaguchi-gumi could absorb this quantity."
"Next."
"Second, weaponize it for offense and diplomacy. As you taught, sir, the devil-worshipping Heptagonal Knights (O7A) are mortal enemies of London's Round Table, with their leader Grace at the helm. Gifting them five tons of pure cocaine grants immense funding. Britain would face a triple crisis: drug addiction, rising crime, and spreading religious terrorism."
"......"
The first was obvious; the second, ingenious. Yes, in the Heptagonal Knights' hands, it would explode spectacularly. Five tons of high-purity cocaine, processed into crack, could dose 180 million people. Dilute the purity to garbage levels, and it stretched to 230 million. Processing was dead simple—just baking powder and a fry pan. A group like them wouldn't miss that recipe.
Building an alliance with Grace was a nagging puzzle I'd mulled over in spare moments. Feasible? It meant revealing myself.
No fool would accept such a gift without knowing the sender.
A witch who'd evaded the Round Table's pursuit for over fifty years. Objectively, she outdid me as fugitive and warrior. Free drugs worth 15 trillion won—100 billion pounds? She'd suspect foul play first.
The issue was her mental state. Was her mind intact enough for rational talk? Leading a half-century of human-sacrificing lunatics as high priestess didn't exactly scream stability. Rationality in dialogue wasn't guaranteed by her survival skills.
And how to even explain myself? "A Round Table Master got trapped in a kid's soul and burned out his mana"? Most likely, she'd laugh, then unload bullets and spells.
"Alright, you two. Time to eat."
Kyung-tae arrived with a large tray laden with utensils and food. The main was Mexican-style rice and steaming meat stew; sides were a basket of avocados and bacon chips for topping.
Our discussion paused naturally. We cleared the table papers; Kyung-tae spread a cloth and set the places.
"Expectations high—this is my own cooking."
"Your own? What's this dish?"
"Guisado, a chicken stew. Found a recipe online."
"......"
"First time with Mexican food, but it turned out great. Good enough for you, hyungnim. Haha!"
Guisado and avocados—classic Kyung-tae picks. Excluding drugs, avocados were Mexico's most valuable export crop. The country led global production, mostly from Michoacán State—the former stronghold of the now-defunct Templar Knights cartel. That was why Ricardo from Texas called their fake crusaders "farmers." Not literal farming, of course—they harvested trucks of avocados or the orchards themselves. Their tax, per guisado.
Suyeon had gathered intel beforehand: last year's net from this "green gold" was about 4 billion pesos—roughly 200 billion won.
The basket's avocados were plump, perfectly ripened—firm even after further softening. Fresh from nearby groves, naturally.
The farmers under the Knights' domain would enjoy brief peace and happiness. Until another cartel came knocking.
Even this crop will grow scarce someday.
Harvests were organisms too, affected by mana essence. Plant souls slumbered in seeds. Soon, storage warehouses would spawn immortal cancers, or seeds would sprout on mana alone.
I'd long ago instructed Yeouido Kim to ramp up food resource investments.
Kyung-tae ladled stew into three bowls with a ladle. Mine was double the others—enough for a whole chicken. The rice portion was generous too.
"Eat up, hyungnim."
"......What about the others?"
"Don't worry—they're eating and resting fine. Part of the fun in a place like this is everyone fending for themselves."
"Good work."
As they waited, I took the first spoonful. A tad salty, but overall solid. Despite chef prejudices, the thick, gochujang-stew look delivered exotic spice and tang without discomfort.
"Not bad."
"Right?"
"You two eat too. Best while hot."
"Yep."
Kyung-tae grinned, digging in bowl and spoon together. Suyeon, who'd winced at her first bite, quietly emptied hers.
Dessert was avocados with non-alcoholic champagne. Too many reports and approvals pending for real booze.
"No alcohol buzz—kinda disappointing."
Kyung-tae sliced an avocado with his military machete, a British Army spoil. He halved it, speared the large round pit with the blade tip, and flicked it out clean. Scoring the skin lengthwise, he peeled it away, leaving creamy yellow flesh tinged green at the edges. Comically intent, wielding the huge blade on the small fruit.
"Here, hyungnim's por—"
My plate already held neat slices. Kyung-tae glanced at Suyeon, calmly prepping her second.
"Aw......"
His needless disappointment triggered déjà vu. These two's antics weren't new.
Adding his slices to my plate, he prepped his own and asked, "Hyungnim, how big are you planning to build up that Martinez admiral?"
"Build up?"
"Basically, right? No other outlets for him, we handle laundering even if he pays, supply's limited, goods aren't special or cheap...... His growth depends on how much you spoon-feed him."
"Say that's true—what's your angle?"
"I checked out those Unapropu harbor guards yesterday while you talked to the admiral."
"And?"
"Born soldiers, through and through. They idolize him—standing ramrod straight like fresh recruits, eyes blazing. Not just show; real discipline."
"I see......"
"Yes, sir."
I hadn't noticed, but if Kyung-tae said so, it was true. A quality stamp on the admiral.
Avocados eaten near the source were richer, nuttier than I remembered. The fruit's creaminess paired perfectly with the sparkling wine's crispness.
Kyung-tae said, "Not as calculated as Suyeon-noonim, but raise him right, and he'll be a reliable partner in tough times. So why not go big on startup capital, like with the White Chief? Be his angel investor. Mexico runs on money as power, after all."
"I get you."
In short, cultivate another White Chief. My inclination tipped toward trusting Kyung-tae's instinct. Timing mattered in investments—the sooner, the stronger the impression.