Chapter Fifty-Four: Sebastian

In a moment of desperation, Chen Cao thrust his legs against the ground, channeling the upward force from the earth into his arms as he clamped them tightly to his sides. The two guerrilla fighters who had been restraining him instantly found themselves caught in a vice-like grip; their faces flushed red, teeth bared, and they cried out in pain. With another surge of strength, Chen Cao pinched his armpits together, and a sharp crack echoed through the room—the bones of the two Holy War Organization fighters snapping under the pressure. This move, taught to him by Instructor Zhou Anshi from the art of Bajiquan, was designed precisely for such situations. When the enemy holds you tightly to prevent escape, their grip becomes rigid, the bones tense like a taut string—apply force, and they will break. The same principle held true here.

Clearly, Chen Cao had dislocated their shoulders. With a swift, precise movement, he struck each man at the temple with his elbow, sending them staggering and collapsing to the ground.

The portly interpreter, wide-eyed at the sound of breaking bones, cursed in his native tongue, “Baka!” But that was all he managed. Chen Cao gave him no further chance, landing a brutal kick to his groin. As the man doubled over, Chen Cao snatched the pistol holstered at his waist.

All the interpreter could feel was the flesh of his face twitching uncontrollably, a searing pain radiating from below—his testicles felt ready to burst, and his mouth went dry as if all moisture had been sucked away. He crouched on the ground, groaning, unable to rise.

Chen Cao chambered a round in the pistol, spat contemptuously at the now-helpless, snarling lackey slumped before him, “Pathetic. Not even worth pissing on, and you still dare to mess with your grandpa? Bah!”

“Well done, young man, impressive skills. But now you've stirred up a hornet's nest!” A voice chuckled from the darkness—clearly, Chen Cao’s dangerous maneuvers had not surprised him.

“Oh? Aren’t you planning to leave with me?” Chen Cao asked, turning the light on the disheveled, foul-smelling Kokora man before him.

The man’s spirits seemed to sink instantly at Chen Cao’s words. “Leave? Where could I go? Even my own country has abandoned me. Besides, this tunnel leads nowhere—there’s no way out.”

“Is that so?” Chen Cao barely finished speaking when a voice called from outside, “Mr. Matsumoto, please forgive our lack of hospitality!”

The speaker’s words were flawless Gabonese, startling Chen Cao. He immediately raised his gun toward the entrance.

A man strode in, surrounded by a squad of soldiers. He wore a flowing robe with wide sleeves, a tall turban, and a thick beard covering his kindly, middle-aged face.

The soldiers who entered first saw the two fighters and the fat interpreter curled up protecting his groin. Instantly, they leveled their AK rifles at Chen Cao.

Seeing reinforcements, the interpreter’s eyes lit up despite his pain. He waved his arms and shouted shrilly at the soldiers, his voice especially grating in the dim room.

The bearded man, clearly annoyed, silenced him with a slap across the face. The interpreter’s face turned purple as an eggplant, and he squatted quietly, making no further sound.

Chen Cao considered opening fire, but their submachine guns far outmatched his pistol, and in such a confined space, even poor marksmanship would be fatal. Reluctantly, he held his fire.

The bearded man grinned at Chen Cao, who still held his gun. “Mr. Matsumoto, don’t you recognize me? When I sought refuge in Gabon back then, it was thanks to you and your father’s care!”

“Seeking refuge in Gabon?” Chen Cao’s mind raced—this was a bad turn. Who was this man? Was it Sebastian or Alfred? He hadn’t prepared well enough, and the Vulture hadn’t provided photos of either man. He would have to guess.

Thinking quickly, Chen Cao raised one hand, gesturing for silence. He bent down and placed his gun on the ground, then replied haughtily, “I’m glad you remember.”

He had deliberately used the plural form, “you,” to avoid any misunderstanding. Clearly, the bearded man took him for Matsumoto Shuren, so he was neither Alfred nor Sebastian. But who was he?

A nearby fighter rushed to retrieve the gun, while the bearded man, still smiling, approached Chen Cao and embraced him warmly. “Mr. Matsumoto, it seems you’re even more spirited after your cosmetic surgery!”

Chen Cao was stunned. Cosmetic surgery? What kind of trick was this? Was there some change in plan? He could only play along, forcing a smile. “Indeed, I put a lot of thought into this operation.” Placing his hand on his chest, he faced east and feigned a solemn prayer: “O Sun God, forgive me for altering the appearance you bestowed upon me. In the name of the Almighty, I repent…”

The bearded man pressed his hand to his own chest, closed his eyes, and waited patiently for Chen Cao’s lengthy prayer to end before speaking. “Ever since the Allied Army’s wicked assault, you vanished. I’ve been searching for you ever since. But as you know, with millions of soldiers clashing on the battlefield and without advanced equipment, it was nearly impossible to find you. Who would have thought that, with the courage of a hundred men and the wisdom granted by the Sun God, you would find your way to our headquarters? Truly, the Almighty is merciful!”

Chen Cao sneered inwardly at the man’s honeyed words. This must be the treacherous leader, Sebastian. He put on a mournful expression and said, “Yes, I’ve suffered greatly these days—all thanks to those evil Alliance troops. On the battlefield, I watched our Divine Guardians fall to their bullets… I…” As he spoke, tears welled up in his eyes.

While he prayed aloud, he secretly congratulated himself—Teacher Linghu’s training had paid off. If she weren’t an instructor, those so-called actresses back in the Republic wouldn’t stand a chance!

The bearded man squeezed out a few tears as well, and, seeing his soldiers weeping behind him, seized the moment to raise his hands and cry, “We swear to resist the Alliance to the end! Our warriors are invincible—those who fight for freedom will find eternal happiness with the Almighty!”

“For freedom!” came the resounding chorus.

“For the true messenger, Alfred!” The soldiers’ passionate shouts shook the tunnel, and even the fat interpreter, holding his aching groin, raised a hand and joined in, expressing his loyalty through his pain.

“Mr. Matsumoto, your support for our Holy War is unforgettable. I, Sebastian, will remember it always. Now, let’s proceed with our transaction!” declared the bearded man.

Chen Cao narrowed his eyes—so this really was Sebastian, the capricious leader. He knew Sebastian was after the weapons he’d promised. But all Chen Cao had brought were some daily necessities and a few firearms from the Matsumoto cult—nowhere near enough to arm tens of thousands of guerrillas. Yet Sebastian was so eager, so desperate; clearly, the resistance was at the end of its rope.

“Hmph, there’s nothing for you, but I’ll play along for now and buy some time,” Chen Cao thought, forcing a genial laugh. “Very well, I was hoping for just that.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Someone summon a doctor to tend to Mr. Matsumoto’s wounds!” Sebastian, full of enthusiasm, took Chen Cao’s hand and led him out of the stone chamber.

Outside, the lights blazed. Chen Cao saw that they were in a spacious tunnel wide enough for two large trucks to pass side by side. As he left the chamber, he glanced back at the former Kokora fighter still sitting motionless in the corner, his hands on his knees, tapping a steady, rhythmic beat with his fingers. Chen Cao left, deep in thought.

Outside the door, dozens of Holy War soldiers stood guard, weapons at the ready. Seeing the leader emerge, they snapped to attention. Chen Cao found it laughable—so much security in this tiny underground space! Still, it showed Sebastian’s importance within the organization.

All smiles, Sebastian chatted about the elder Matsumoto’s health and the organization’s progress as they walked down the tunnel arm in arm. Chen Cao noticed rows of iron doors on both walls, each one a gaping black hole—perhaps more Kokora fighters or prisoners were locked within.

At the mouth of the tunnel, Chen Cao saw a deep, bottomless shaft.

At that moment, two of Sebastian’s fighters joined another nearby to crank a massive pulley with all their strength. With a clatter and a creak, something began to rise from below.

“An elevator—no, a man-powered lift!” Chen Cao was surprised. Under the bright light, he saw a huge iron platform, large enough for a dozen people, rising to meet the floor. Clearly, this was a well-organized underground world; the Alliance forces would have their work cut out for them conquering Odelu.

While Chen Cao pondered this, Sebastian said, “Mr. Matsumoto, after you!” He seemed pleased with Chen Cao’s astonishment.

Sebastian stepped onto the iron platform, followed by two fully armed fighters. Chen Cao joined them.

With a clattering sound, the manually operated lift began to descend steadily, almost like a modern elevator.

Suddenly, Chen Cao felt a faint vibration behind him.

His eyelid twitched as he recalled the rhythm tapped out by the former Kokora fighter’s fingers back in the stone chamber.