Chapter Forty-Four: Robbed by One’s Own People

In the darkness, a low voice barked out a command, but to Mosika’s ears, it sounded like music from heaven. The language wasn’t the foreign tongue of Mainz—it was the local dialect. Mosika’s heart leaped with joy, and he strained to see, but the endless sea of sand revealed not a single figure. Yet the voice he'd just heard was no illusion.

He hurriedly called out in the native language, “I am a warrior of the True Sun God—someone here is wounded!” Mosika’s words were soon swallowed up by the vast desert, but the reply came swiftly.

“Which base are you from?” The voice echoed again, still invisible. Clearly, these native guerrilla fighters knew well how to hide and disguise themselves, and were wary of enemy tactics. In this war, it was common for the armies of the Justice League to bribe the local people with food and water, luring resistance fighters out.

Once Mosika was certain the voice belonged to his own people, he suppressed his hunger and thirst, his dry mouth aching. Fearing his words might be misunderstood, he shouted, “I’m from the Envoy Sebastien's base!”

“What proof do you have?” The reply was leisurely; still, no one showed themselves. Mosika glanced at Chen Cao, who was barely clinging to life. Though anxious, he knew he must not act rashly. The other side could see everything, and any irregular movement would be met with gunfire.

He could only answer honestly, “I’m from the Harald training base. I’m his son—Mosika!”

After he spoke, silence fell for a long moment. In the desert, the temperature dropped sharply at night, and the cold wind swept ever closer. Mosika shivered but stood firm, letting the wind and sand batter him, unmoving like a statue.

Suddenly, a beam of light cut through the darkness. A pair of resistance fighters, their heads wrapped in scarves and clad in loose robes, weapons in hand, advanced slowly with a flashlight.

The bright beam shone on Mosika's face; instinctively, he shielded his eyes. In that instant, a sharp pain struck his abdomen—he was kicked to the ground, and before he could react, his pistol was snatched away.

“Ha! This kid’s the bastard spawn of that drunk Harald!” The fighter with the flashlight, now more at ease after recognizing Mosika, laughed heartily, but made no move to help him up.

Mosika, ignoring the pain, scrambled to his feet and cried, “Help him, quickly—!”

By the dim light, Mosika saw several fighters turn Chen Cao over and thoroughly search the wreckage for food. They took the “Farewell Double-Edged Blade” from Chen Cao, even pulling his belt off with determined precision.

“You—” Mosika rushed forward, cradling Chen Cao, speechless with anger.

“Ha! It’s called a routine search, kid!” The fighter with the flashlight grinned at Mosika. “But you don’t need one. Looks like your only valuable possession is that dog tag pistol!”

Mosika understood the look in his eyes, but persisted, “Take whatever you want—just save him!”

The guerrillas paused, then burst into laughter. The flashlight beam swept across Mosika’s face. “Are you joking, kid? We don’t have extra supplies to save anyone—look at how poor we are! If you want to leave, follow us to the cave. That yellow-skinned man—we won’t save him, and he already looks beyond hope!” With a whistle to his comrades, the fighter turned to leave.

Mosika watched them go, glanced at the ever-weakening Chen Cao in his arms, and suddenly had an idea. “Then I won’t go either!”

“Suit yourself!” the flashlight fighter called back, not turning around.

“What’s your name?” Mosika shouted.

“Kokoli!” Kokoli turned, puzzled. “Why?”

“Good, I have a special way to contact my father. If I die, I’ll leave your name in the message. You know what my father’s methods are—once he learns you saw his son and refused to help, he’ll hunt you to the ends of the earth, and you’ll die in disgrace!”

Mosika threatened him, and in the faint light, he saw Kokoli’s expression change. He knew his strategy had worked.

Kokoli turned back, and his comrades followed suit, approaching Mosika.

Kokoli grabbed Mosika, and as they locked eyes, Mosika caught a strong whiff of old sweat and tobacco, making him dizzy. Suddenly, Kokoli dropped him and slapped him hard across the face. Mosika saw stars and tasted blood as it trickled from his mouth.

“Don’t scare me with your father!” Kokoli growled fiercely.

Mosika smiled, crawling up from the ground, undaunted by Kokoli’s threatening gaze. In the howling desert wind and dim light, his dehydrated body sucked at the blood on his lips, a strange sight.

Kokoli shivered, then rallied and waved his comrades over. They went to lift Chen Cao.

“Careful!” Mosika shouted, rushing to straighten Chen Cao’s body.

“Relax, he won’t die!” Kokoli snapped, unwilling to say more, secretly wishing he’d shot Mosika earlier.

After some time in the desert, Mosika’s eyes were blindfolded. Though unwilling, he allowed it for Chen Cao’s sake.

Even blindfolded, Mosika felt himself carried up a slope. The sound of an engine told him he’d been loaded onto a vehicle. Chen Cao was beside him, and in the darkness Mosika reached out to feel his forehead—hot, but at least not cold like the dead.

“Where are we going?” Mosika asked in the darkness.

Kokoli’s voice answered, “To hell.”

After a while, the engine slowed. Mosika guessed they’d traveled dozens of kilometers.

“We’re here. Take off the blindfold!” Kokoli sounded unhappy to have brought back two burdens but resigned.

As Mosika removed the cloth, he inhaled air different from the stifling desert heat. Before him stretched endless mountains.

At the stop, the fighters got busy—unloading supplies, carrying weapons, food, and ammo. Chen Cao was tossed to the ground, unconscious, as indifferent to them as a corpse.

Mosika hurried to hold Chen Cao, staring at the expressionless holy warriors.

When they finished, the guerrillas began hauling supplies up the mountain, not sparing Mosika and Chen Cao a glance.

“Wait! Help me!” Mosika pleaded, holding Chen Cao.

No one answered.

“Kokoli, help me carry him, please!” Mosika begged, the only familiar face left.

Kokoli turned, stroking his beard and clutching his supplies. “Can’t you see I’m busy? I advise you, in these chaotic times, to abandon that ‘corpse’ early!”

“I won’t give up!” Mosika’s eyes shone with determination as he clutched Chen Cao tighter.

Kokoli looked at Mosika, then at Chen Cao, and smiled. “Then it’s up to you. I’ve got no time!” He turned and walked away.

Mosika stood barely one meter seventy, while Chen Cao was one meter eighty and nearly eighty kilos. He knew what Kokoli meant by “up to you.”

The night was deep. Mosika leaned against a tree as fighter jets roared overhead. Staring at the endless mountains and the distant figures of Kokoli and his men, he knew if he didn’t keep up, enemy aircraft would spot them and open fire without hesitation.

Mosika gritted his teeth, hoisted Chen Cao onto his back, and stumbled after Kokoli and his group through the dark, uneven terrain. He had to rely on them if Chen Cao was to survive.

Luckily, Kokoli and his men were familiar with the land. Apart from the extra burden, the path was mostly smooth. Even so, when Mosika caught up, he was drenched in sweat from exertion and cold.

When Mosika arrived, Kokoli’s group had just finished unloading at a cave on the cliff, camouflaging the entrance.

Kokoli eyed the exhausted Mosika coldly. “Go in. If he dies, don’t blame us for throwing him out—I don’t want him dirtying our place!” He turned and went inside.