Chapter Forty-Six: Fate Cannot Be Escaped

Over the past few days, Chen Cao’s nerves in his legs had gradually begun to recover. With the help of the cave wall, he could slowly move about the perimeter. Mosika was delighted, eager to accompany Chen Cao for a walk outside, but the members of the Holy War Organization strictly forbade any excursions.

Chen Cao was well aware that these days, the number of Holy War guerrillas returning was fewer than those who departed; each day, someone would come into the cave to rest, and each day, others would leave to fight, but far fewer returned. He noticed this detail—there were now barely any native soldiers left; instead, the majority were white and black men.

Clearly, these were mercenaries.

“It seems the situation is dire. I must act swiftly. I wonder if Zhou Hongye and the others have been found yet. If not, that would be disastrous!” The sense of urgency pressed on him. Chen Cao flexed his legs, and leaning on Mosika, he quickened his pace within the cave, pondering all the while.

“Matsumoto, how are you feeling now?” Mosika’s large, bright eyes pulled him back from his thoughts.

“Oh, nothing, I feel much better.” Chen Cao patted Mosika’s head, feeling a pang of guilt for the boy who had cared for him so diligently these past twenty days.

Mosika saw the color returning to Chen Cao’s face, his body growing stronger by the day, and he smiled with sweet contentment.

“If only we could get some bone broth now, you’d recover even faster,” Mosika said hopefully.

“Really? There’s no need. A few more days of rest and I’ll be fine. Then, I’ll go with you to find your father,” Chen Cao replied, smiling fondly at the boy.

Suddenly, raucous voices echoed from outside.

“Hurry up and bring me some wine! Ha! I killed two Justice Alliance commandos today!”

Chen Cao understood at once—this was one of the white mercenaries working for the Holy War Organization. He was also, as Chen Cao had observed, the longest-surviving fighter in the cave—a tyrant among them.

“Wow, Kyle, what did you bring back?” At the sound, Chen Cao peered out to see a tall white man in camouflage, his body spattered with blood. In one hand, he clutched a bottle of liquor and guzzled it greedily; in the other, he brandished a round, bloody object with pride.

The Holy War guerrillas crowded around, marveling at the sight. After so much combat, not even the regular troops had glimpsed the enemy’s special forces, let alone seen such a trophy.

“Matsumoto, what are you looking at?” Mosika, curious, peeked out as well, his gaze falling upon the object in Kyle’s hand, illuminated by the firelight.

“It’s a head,” Chen Cao said coldly. He felt no mercy toward enemies, but such mutilation, this leaving of corpses incomplete, filled him with disgust.

Mosika recoiled instantly in fear.

Watching as the proud Holy Warriors now orbited the mercenary Kyle, Chen Cao drew back, disdainful. Just then, another white mercenary, basking in his own triumph, hoisted a second severed head and shouted, “Since we’re all in such good spirits tonight, let’s split open this skull and see what’s inside, shall we?” With that, he drew a dagger from his belt.

Before he unsheathed his blade, Chen Cao’s eyes caught a glint—the twin-bladed dagger that had been confiscated by the Holy War Organization that day. Apparently, the mercenaries had claimed it for themselves.

“So be it. Tomorrow, I’ll settle all my scores at once, including Mosika’s,” Chen Cao resolved silently.

“Mosika, you little brat, where are you? Get some water and wash me up, or do you want that cripple to go hungry tonight?” came another voice from outside.

“Ha! Brook, you really have a thing for this. The boy’s got such tender skin—want to have a go at him tonight?” Kyle’s crude laughter followed.

Mosika glanced at Chen Cao, his knuckles white with strain as he gently pressed Chen Cao’s hand. “Matsumoto, now isn’t the time for open defiance. I’ve gotten used to it these days. I’ll fetch the water and be back soon.” With a reassuring smile, he turned and left.

“Haha, kid, if you serve me well tonight, I’ll give you a big leg of meat!” Brook chuckled, sprawling on a thick cotton blanket atop the stone platform. In the cramped cave, he, Kyle, and Arthur—the three foreign mercenaries—took up half the space and monopolized all supplies. The other Holy Warriors cowered in a corner, completely subservient to the mercenaries, handing over half of their own hard-won loot. Even the slightest dissatisfaction was met with violence and abuse; there was no dignity left.

At the mention of meat, Mosika, carrying the basin, nodded eagerly, his eyes wide with innocent delight. It had been so many days that he and Chen Cao had survived on fatty scraps and broth boiled from roots and bones discarded by the mercenaries. Now, with the promise of real meat, the boy could already picture sharing it with Chen Cao.

“Come, wipe me down,” Brook ordered, stripping off his shirt to reveal his muscular torso, lying back on the thick cotton mat while Kyle and Arthur exchanged sly glances at Mosika. Normally, they ignored the boy, but tonight their gazes held something different.

Oblivious, Mosika, focused on the promised meat, proceeded to wring out a towel and gently wipe the blood from Brook’s back.

Brook closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure, unaware that the Holy War fighters, huddled nearby, were cursing the mercenaries in their hearts. In the desert, water was life—a gift from the sun god. Now, with the Justice Alliance controlling every water source, even this water for Brook’s bath had cost countless guerrilla lives.

Still, the warriors dared not protest. The mercenaries were under the protection of their leaders and were genuinely formidable.

Standing by the cave wall, Chen Cao saw the danger in the mercenaries’ eyes and felt a chill of foreboding. Unfortunately, these mercenaries, for all their boorishness, were highly disciplined; from the first day, they had confiscated every weapon that might threaten them. Chen Cao was completely unarmed.

Mosika, sweating from his effort, continued to wipe Brook’s back, unaware of the blue, predatory gleam in the mercenaries’ eyes.

“Mosika, my sweet child, come wipe me down as well,” Arthur said, lying back with a lascivious smile.

“Alright,” Mosika replied, wringing the towel over the basin and moving to help Arthur. At that moment, Kyle could restrain himself no longer; he seized Mosika in his arms, his thick arms pinning the boy, his hands groping Mosika’s chest.

“Stop! Let me go!” Mosika struggled desperately, spilling the basin of water with a crash that echoed through the cave.

“I told you, this one’s a girl. Try for yourself!” Kyle jeered at Brook.

“Then what are we waiting for? Let’s have some fun tonight!” Arthur laughed, lunging at Mosika’s pants. “Boy or girl, I can’t hold back any longer. Look at that skin!”

With a sudden kick, Mosika struck Arthur in the stomach, knocking him to the ground and tearing a strip from his own trousers, exposing his pale calf.

Brook roared with laughter. “Arthur, you useless bastard! Did she kick you in the jewels?”

“Damn it! Kyle, hold her down. I don’t believe we can’t tame this little bitch,” Arthur spat, climbing to his feet and clutching his groin, grateful to have avoided serious injury.

“Go ahead, but be quick—none of us have had a woman in a month. Looks like it’s her first time; you’re lucky,” Kyle said, clamping Mosika in his iron grip, the boy powerless to escape.

Arthur rushed over, slapping Mosika hard across the face. “That’s for kicking me! For kicking me!” he snarled, beating Mosika until she could barely breathe. With a final rip, he tore off her tattered jacket, exposing her flat stomach and, beneath her underclothes, the budding curves of her chest.

The three mercenaries, driven wild by lust, drooled at the sight of Mosika’s pale skin, their eyes glazed with desire.

As tragedy loomed, the Holy War fighters sat coldly by the fire, burying their heads between their knees, pretending not to see.

Unable to contain himself, Brook rolled atop Mosika.

The chapter ends here.