Chapter Thirty-Eight: The Frenzy of the Devotees

That solid gold fountain pen was essentially a “gift” to himself! The young leader was delighted; whether Chen Cao understood or not, all along the way he chattered enthusiastically, trying to build rapport with Chen Cao, his face beaming with smiles. As for Chen Cao, he simply nodded and smiled faintly, giving an impression of easy-going indifference, but his sharp eyes were darting around, carefully observing the searchlights, the sentry posts, the deployment of troops and weapons along the way, recording every detail in his mind.

It wasn’t long before they arrived at a mountain stronghold. The place was alive with noise and commotion, cheers and gunshots echoing now and then, chaos reigning everywhere.

Hearing the gunshots, Chen Cao deliberately put on a look of terror.

The bearded leader walking beside him noticed Chen Cao’s apparent timidity and burst out laughing, clapping him on the shoulder to reassure him, and, to show his sincerity, took the lead and strode into the stronghold.

This was a typical desert encampment—snow-white tents stood everywhere. At the same time, it was unmistakably a bandit-style stronghold, the air thick with the smell of gunpowder, smoke, alcohol, and the charred scent of roasted lamb. Every man held a gun in one hand and a cup in the other, drinking at every greeting, each of them thoroughly drunk.

The leader gestured for Chen Cao to wait a moment, then quickly entered a massive tent at the northern end.

Chen Cao glanced in that direction. The white tent was heavily guarded—it was clearly the command post of this so-called Holy War organization. Unlike the drunken fighters outside, the guards at the command post stood rigidly at attention, eyes straight ahead, all business. Chen Cao couldn’t help but pity the revelers outside; in the event of battle, they would be nothing but cannon fodder.

The bearded young leader was gone only a few minutes before he hurried back, this time accompanied by a short, pudgy man with yellow skin, thick black-rimmed glasses, and a wobbling gait that left him panting after only a few steps—a clear sign of poor health.

The young leader nearly jogged over, giving Chen Cao another hearty embrace, then pulled out some gauze and, with an apologetic smile, began to bandage Chen Cao’s wounded head. Afterward, he yanked the fat man forward and rattled off a stream of words.

The pudgy man wiped the sweat from his face and spoke in Gabonese: “This is Chief Stanley. He wants to know your name.”

“So, you’re the interpreter!” Chen Cao squinted slightly—linguistics was part of his training. The language of that small East Asian country was child’s play to him. He switched to flawless Gabonese, introducing himself and expressing his sincere hope to cooperate with the head of the Holy War organization, Sebastian, and conveyed Matsumoto Kenryo’s admiration for the alliance’s revered leader, Mayalfred.

The fat man opened his overfed mouth and began a simultaneous translation.

Stanley listened, then burst out laughing, repeatedly shouting “Hurrah, hurrah!” before grabbing Chen Cao by the sleeve and dragging him toward the command post.

Chen Cao’s smile never faltered, but a thread of anxiety twisted in his heart. He couldn’t be sure how accurate his intelligence was—after all, the supreme leader of this Holy War faction had met Matsumoto personally. If the leader returned and recognized him, everything would be exposed.

To secure his position, Chen Cao discreetly slipped a gold coin into Stanley’s hand as they walked.

Stanley felt something odd, glanced at the coin, and his laughter grew louder, his exclamations of “Hurrah!” even more enthusiastic.

When they reached the tent, two Holy War guards blocked their path.

“They’re going to search you,” the fat interpreter explained, mopping his brow.

Chen Cao stretched out his arms in a gesture of absolute candor, letting the two guards frisk him thoroughly.

He had expected the guards to show interest in his dollars, gold coins, and other valuables, but they merely glanced at them and put them back.

“That’s going to make things more difficult,” Chen Cao thought.

The search passed smoothly, and a sly smile flickered across Chen Cao’s face. Stanley, seeing the valuables the guards had uncovered, grinned even more broadly, his mouth practically never closing, as if those treasures were already his.

Lifting the tent flap, they entered. At a table, a man was hunched over a map, examining something beneath a magnifying glass. Chen Cao cast a sidelong glance and saw that the man’s breathing was steady; from time to time he put down the magnifying glass to draw with a pencil and compass. If not for his desert robes, if he wore camouflage, his calm bearing and command over the map would mark him out as a brilliant officer.

Thankfully, according to Chen Cao’s information, this was not the supreme leader.

Stanley strode over, pressed his fist to his chest in salute, and rattled off a rapid introduction to the middle-aged man, gesturing toward Chen Cao. He even rolled up Chen Cao’s sleeve to reveal the red, seared sun tattoo on his arm.

The officer looked up. He was tall and stern-faced, his features sharply chiseled, though his nose appeared to have been cut off by something. But for that, he would have been considered a handsome man in this desert nation.

Still holding the magnifying glass, he walked over and addressed Chen Cao in his native tongue. The interpreter translated: “You are Matsumoto Shuren, son of the Sun God?”

Chen Cao merely nodded, his smile unwavering.

The officer’s eyes suddenly flashed cold. In a swift motion, a small blade appeared in his hand. He grasped Chen Cao’s arm and sliced around the sun tattoo.

Chen Cao did not resist. He knew exactly what the officer intended, and he was well prepared.

Seeing Chen Cao’s lack of resistance and his calm smile, the officer’s gaze softened slightly, but he continued deftly probing the tattoo with his blade, as if searching for something.

Chen Cao kept smiling, not a muscle twitching.

In a few seconds, the officer pried out a button-sized object, still flecked with bits of flesh.

A rare smile creased the officer’s stern, noseless face, twisting his features into a grotesque mask under the tent’s lamp.

He turned, retrieved a small camouflage-patterned device from the table, and fitted the button-cell-like object into a slot—it was a perfect match.

The officer waved grandly and, through the interpreter, said, “Mr. Matsumoto, forgive us for our rudeness. Please, someone tend to Mr. Matsumoto’s wound.”

As he spoke, two men in white entered, each carrying a tray—one with medical instruments and gauze, the other with a cup of milky liquid.

Chen Cao knew the local custom: guests were ranked in three classes. Ordinary guests received clear liquor, the next rank drank spirits infused with insects, and the highest honor was reserved for those served what they believed to be God’s own sustenance—fermented mare’s milk.

So, this was the mare’s milk. Chen Cao smiled, picked up the large bowl—big enough for both hands and five centimeters deep—and drained it in one gulp.

“Well done! Mr. Matsumoto is truly the Sun God’s son—a man of courage!” The officer was deeply impressed by Chen Cao’s boldness, laid the blade on the table, and clapped his hands in admiration. Then he introduced himself: “My name is Fredricka, deputy commander of this base.”

The medic produced a vial, asking if Chen Cao wanted anesthesia. Chen Cao shook his head with a smile and said, “I’ve long heard of your reputation, Commander Fredricka. In the Battle of Tituxion, you led a single company in a brilliant flanking maneuver that left Kokora’s reorganized division—a force of a former superpower—completely at your mercy. You are truly a warrior of the Sun God!”

“Haha, it was the Sun God’s blessing that gave me courage!” Commander Fredricka was delighted at Chen Cao’s praise for his glorious exploits and shouted, “More drinks!”

He went on, “Mr. Matsumoto, though we both worship the Sun God, our teachings and understanding differ. Our true god teaches our warriors courage, strength, and the fearlessness of death. What, then, does your true god teach your followers?” A sly smile played on Fredricka’s lips.

The medic had now finished bandaging Chen Cao’s wound. Hearing Fredricka’s words, Chen Cao thought to himself, “This fellow is obviously setting a trap. If I praise his god’s teachings, I belittle my own; if I exalt my god, I insult him. Well then, if you’re going to put me on the spot, I’ll leave you speechless!”

With that thought, Chen Cao picked up the bowl of liquor and drained it in one swallow. As the drink burned its way to his head, he drew a curved dagger from Fredricka’s belt and proclaimed, “Our Sun God teaches us not merely to laugh in the face of death; to gain the freedom of the Sun’s light, one must forget everything!”

With those words, Chen Cao slashed his own arm, and blood gushed from the wound.

The yellow-skinned, pudgy interpreter stared in shock.

Chen Cao shouted, “Forget pain!” and made a second cut.

Now the interpreter was too stunned to translate, and Fredricka himself was gaping.

Seeing everyone’s astonished faces, Chen Cao, his own arm laid bare to the bone and yet showing no sign of pain, made a third cut, and continued: “We must face every battle ready to perish with our enemies. Our blood is not shed in vain—we offer it as a living sacrifice to our true god. When we die, we shall receive the freedom of the eternal light and journey to paradise.”

Finishing, Chen Cao tossed the blood-stained curved dagger to Stanley, his smile never wavering, and fixed Fredricka with his gaze. “Tell me, can your holy warriors do the same?”