Chapter Forty: Cheers in the Dead of Night

The Sebastin Jihadist Organization was a large faction within the Oderu Jihadist Alliance, with thousands of members. Sebastin himself had once been a mere desert bandit, surviving by robbing merchants passing through the sands. Yet this insignificant outlaw endured while the major guerrilla groups of Oderu tore each other apart, and, thanks to Sebastin’s cunning opportunism, his following grew ever stronger. When the so-called “Justice Alliance,” spearheaded by the superpower Mainz Federation, launched an overwhelming assault with hundreds of thousands of conventional troops to purge “terrorist organizations” from Oderu, Sebastin demonstrated his gift for adapting to changing tides. He pledged allegiance to the Alliance’s leader, the terror mastermind known as Alfred the Divine Angel, and swiftly became his right-hand man. As his own power swelled, Sebastin began secretly selling intelligence to countries within the Justice Alliance, gaining their trust, accepting political contributions, and amassing both wealth and supplies. Ironically, it was this intelligence that enabled the Justice Alliance’s forces to make sweeping advances deep into Oderu.

Yet, just as victory seemed at hand and the Justice Alliance was poised to eliminate the jihadist terrorists, Sebastin abruptly changed course, revealing his true intentions. His betrayal had been carefully calculated: by leaking information, he inflicted only minor losses to prevent greater disasters, allowing the enemy to push deeper and stretch their supply lines thin. Then, using the very resources and weapons provided by the Justice Alliance, he struck back at them.

Together with Alfred, Sebastin employed guerrilla tactics, suicide bombers, and various terror attacks against the invading armies. He rallied over two hundred thousand fighters, dispersing his units throughout the vast desert, where they battled the Justice Alliance’s advancing troops over thousands of kilometers, gradually grinding the conflict into a stalemate.

Initially, the Justice Alliance was wholly unprepared for this style of warfare and suffered heavy casualties. But after regrouping, they adjusted their strategy: to minimize losses, they pulled back conventional troops into defensive positions, deploying elite special forces instead. These teams carried out precision strikes, guiding bombers and drones to enemy bases and targeting the leadership of the jihadist organizations in a campaign codenamed “Vengeance.”

Sebastin’s training camp was located at the far western edge of the organization’s territory. Though called a “training base,” it was little more than a cluster of civilian houses hastily converted for the purpose. The so-called training equipment consisted of standard AKs, pistols, and rifles, with training sessions lasting a mere month before recruits were sent to the front. In urgent situations, new fighters might receive little more than an hour’s instruction before being thrown into battle—an all-too-common occurrence.

To Chen Cao, this was nothing less than sending the men to their deaths.

The camp’s instructor was a white man from Kokora, a veteran of the eight-year war between Kokora and Oderu. He was a tall, bearded man who trained the recruits in the morning, then spent his afternoons and evenings holed up in his own room in the air-raid shelter, drinking himself into a stupor, day after day.

Over the past few days, Chen Cao had ingratiated himself with the recruits, bribing them with dollars, agates, and other cheap goods. Through their loose tongues, he gleaned much information, including gossip: their instructor, Harred, had killed his unfaithful wife and her lover in a fit of rage and fled Kokora with his son, Mosika.

One evening, Chen Cao sat on a crumbling rock, gazing out at the desert sunset. The blood-red sun was sinking slowly into the endless sands. Deep in thought, he recalled how, after several days of searching the secret Sebastin bases, he had found no trace of Huang Tianyu or his companions. If they had been captured by the jihadists, their special operations training would have left some clue, and, since no East Asian soldiers were involved in the Oderu conflict, the capture of several Asian spies would have been sensational news among the undisciplined guerrillas.

“Could they have been captured by the Justice Alliance? But if that were the case, Vulture would surely have known,” he mused.

Just then, a voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Matsumoto, I just can’t seem to carve the eyes on this puppet. Can you help me?” Mosika, his blue eyes shining beneath a bruised cheek, approached with a half-finished wooden puppet in hand, speaking in a childish tone.

“Oh, Mosika!” Chen Cao smiled at the boy, who looked barely into his teens. He took the boy’s pale hand and pulled him onto the rock beside him.

Mosika, Harred’s son, had been brought to the desert after his father killed his unfaithful wife and her lover. A delicate, typical northerner, Mosika was forbidden by his father from wandering far from the camp. He spoke little and usually sat quietly in a corner. He had warmed to Chen Cao after receiving a piece of chocolate from him, and the two quickly became friends, with Mosika always eager to learn new tricks from him.

“What are you carving?” Chen Cao asked, noticing the half-finished figure in local dress—a Kokoran woman, though her eyes were still unformed.

“My mother.” Mosika leaned against Chen Cao, staring blankly at the sun dipping below the horizon.

“Your mother?” Chen Cao was momentarily taken aback, then understood. No matter their sins, a mother remains unforgettable to her child.

“Yes, I’m trying to imagine what she looked like!” Mosika smiled naively, dimples flickering on his cheeks. His eyes brightened, then dimmed again. “I like to remember her as pure. But Papa says she was a filthy woman.” As he spoke, tears welled in Mosika’s eyes.

Chen Cao put his arm around Mosika’s shoulder, brushing his upturned nose with a finger. As if sensing his sadness, Chen Cao slyly slipped a piece of chocolate into Mosika’s mouth.

Mosika burst out laughing.

“Children do forget their sorrows so easily,” thought Chen Cao, recalling his own all-male household. He had never known his own mother, and his younger sister had been sent off to a girls’ boarding school at such a young age that they had always felt distant.

“Matsumoto, what are you thinking? Come help me carve! We aren’t allowed to have lights on at night,” Mosika urged.

“Oh, of course!” Chen Cao picked up the carving knife, his mind drifting to the faded photograph of his father’s wife on the desk—the only image of his mother he possessed.

***

The camp was quiet at night, not a single light burning. Any illumination would attract the Justice Alliance’s surveillance drones, and the result would be devastating bombardment.

But the base was well-equipped with air-raid shelters, so that was a small comfort.

Chen Cao sat quietly on his cot. Two days prior, he had moved into the shelter, assigned by Stanley to a cramped single room of only a few square meters, which unfortunately limited his mobility.

He checked his luminous watch, tapping it gently with his finger, then pressed his ear to his wrist, listening to the ticking rhythm. After a while, he tapped it again, and repeated the process several times.

At last, he sighed and collapsed onto his cot, eyes wide open. If nothing else worked, he would have to abandon this plan. It was good news that there was no sign of Huang Tianyu or Zhou Hongye being captured, but if they hadn’t been caught, why hadn’t they contacted the organization? Where were they? Oderu was not vast, but searching for a few people was like looking for a needle in a haystack.

“The Justice Alliance’s raids have grown more frequent these days. According to Vulture’s reports, Sebastin will soon return from General Alfred’s camp to launch a new campaign.”

“It’s no longer safe to stay here,” Chen Cao thought, closing his eyes uneasily.

Just as he drifted toward sleep, a burst of cheering erupted outside the shelter.

Startled, Chen Cao’s eyes snapped open. He quickly hid his “Farewell Twin Blades” behind his waist and slipped outside.

The moment he opened the thin wooden door, the strong smell of alcohol hit him. He saw Harred, tall and expressionless, passing by. When Harred noticed Chen Cao, he glared at him with icy blue eyes and said, “This has nothing to do with you. Go back to your room and rest.”

Chen Cao shrugged helplessly. “Mr. Harred, it’s just too boring inside. Surely it’s alright to get some fresh air. Besides, I’m here to experience your life. My report will directly affect your organization’s arms shipments.”

Mixing a hint of threat with his plea, Chen Cao watched as Harred snorted and strode out of the shelter, tacitly granting permission.

“Matsumoto, what’s happening?” Mosika, rubbing sleep from his eyes and clad in pajamas, emerged from his room and called out to Chen Cao.

“Don’t wander off. I’ll go see,” Chen Cao replied.

“I want to come too!” Mosika insisted. The noise outside was swelling, and singing could be heard—it seemed something significant had happened. Chen Cao was worried: “If they’ve captured Huang Tianyu and the others, that would be a disaster.”

“Stay close and don’t stray,” Chen Cao told Mosika, then took his hand and led him along the dark tunnel wall toward the commotion outside.