God of Blackfield

The murderous intent in the gazes of the special forces team was clearly different from that of the new recruits, not to mention the thugs in Korea. A sly smile masked their eyes, which were devoid of any fear of killing, as they marched toward Kang Chan.

“I heard you’re a special case. I advise you to get rid of that look in your eyes.”

The one who spoke was another soldier with deep eyes standing next to the Arab man. The silence of the surrounding soldiers and their gaze directed at Kang Chan made it clear that the soldier was the leader of Team 11, which included Kang Chan and eleven others.

“Shanny.”

“Call me Channy,” Kang Chan corrected.

“Got it. I’m Gillot, the team leader. I look forward to working with you,” Gillot said.

When Gillot stood up, the soldiers who had been watching all simultaneously rose from their seats. The simple act of standing conveyed the feeling that they had spent considerable time together and that the soldiers trusted him.

“Why did you sling your rifle backward?” Gillot asked.

“Because it’s more comfortable this way,” Kang Chan answered.

He headed down the path that Kang Chan had been staring at. The soldiers followed behind him, casting meaningful glances and faint smiles. Kang Chan silently picked up his backpack.

Clink. Clink.

They walked for twenty minutes quietly, yet the peculiar sense of camaraderie that Kang Chan had felt with Enzo in Ndulele remained evident among the soldiers, excluding him.

He followed the soldiers ahead in complete silence.

How do I blend in with them?

Gillot had curly gold and gray hair, brown eyebrows, deep eyes, a nose different from the French, and an unmistakable accent. He looked like one of the Italian men in a barbershop magazine. He’d probably look good in photographs if he had a perfectly fitting black suit, white shirt, and slicked back hair to complete the greasy look.

Add wild eyes and scars, and you’ve got yourself a Gillot.

Clink. Clink.

They had absolutely no conversation during the walk. When they reached the truck, Gillot didn’t tell them to get in either.

Clang!

Instead, he stood with his back to the cargo bed, and one of the soldiers stood in a similar stance across from him. One by one, they climbed into the cargo bed.

Clink! Clank! Clink!

Each grabbed the backrest of the cargo bed and pulled themselves up, Kang Chan included. Afterward, with a nod from Gillot, the soldier on the opposite side climbed up as well. He placed his backpack at the rear, walked to the front, and set up a machine gun on the roof of the driver’s cabin. This scene was distinctly different from how new recruits moved together.

Meanwhile, Gillot moved to the passenger seat. Once he had closed the door, the truck hit the road.

Kang Chan watched the hills gradually recede from the swaying cargo bed. He couldn’t shake off why Enzo and the recruits were left to deal with the rebels when they had special forces teams like this.

Rattle! Clatter!

With each jolt, James, Maxon, and the natives faded into the distance, and Enzo’s presence grew fainter like the scent of Ndulele.

Vrooom!

The truck picked up speed as the road smoothed out. After about twenty minutes, they reached a much cleaner runway than the one where they had first landed in Ndulele.

Kang Chan knew that losing his composure now and glancing around would make him look like a country bumpkin. Hence, he simply assumed that there would be a transport aircraft in the area.

Eventually, the truck changed direction, and a plane finally came into view.

Screech!

The truck stopped close to the tail of the aircraft. Afterward, the Arab soldier smiled slyly and nodded.

Time to get off!

Kang Chan jumped down from the cargo bed and walked toward the transport aircraft. All he could hear were his footsteps and his weapons and equipment clanking; there was hardly any talking.

The silence felt more suffocating than wearing a tight suit. It would have been better if they just attacked and shouted at each other that it was killed or be killed.

Kang Chan sat at the innermost seat of the transport aircraft and set down his backpack.

“Whew!”

They were flying to a new place now. Kang Chan didn’t know how it would differ from Ndulele, but this was likely how the life of a Foreign Legion soldier often looked like.

Clink. Clink.

The soldiers boarded in single file, with Gillot being the last to enter.

Grrrrrrrrrrrung.

Vroom!

As the rear door of the aircraft slowly closed, the engine roared awake and warmed up.

Ding, ding, ding, ding. Drrrrrrrrrrrr.

The transport aircraft began to move slowly, then quickly sped down the runway. Everything inside shook noisily.

Vroom!

Eventually, it rose to the skies. Considering how high they were ascending, they seemed to be going quite far. As soon as the plane leveled off, Gillot took out a cigarette, and the soldiers relaxed into more comfortable positions.

This is fine! Pretending to be friendly would be more burdensome.

Kang Chan took out a cigarette, placed it in his mouth, lit it with a lighter, and took a long drag. As the smoke was drawn back, Gillot began to speak to the soldiers.

“We are landing near the Ubangi River on the border of Congo and the Democratic Republic of Congo. From there, we will then head to Zambi. Our objective is to eliminate the rebel leader Umbembe, who has taken control of Zambi. As you all know, this mission will be far from easy. The 13th Regiment sent seventy-two soldiers to Zambi, yet not only were they wiped out, but they also failed to eliminate the target.”

With a cigarette in his mouth, Gillot took out a folded piece of paper times from his left pocket and handed it to the soldier next to him.

“Memorize the face. He might pass by and greet us while we’re walking.”

The soldiers scrutinized the photo sharply before passing it along. Eventually, it reached Kang Chan. The middle-aged man in the photo was bald; had an extraordinarily large head; and had narrow, slit-like eyes that made him look even more ruthless.

Their objective was to kill this man—something that Kang Chan could never have imagined before. He handed the photo to the soldier beside him.

“Khalid! As per the rules of the 13th Regiment, if you want to opt out of this operation, let me know before we arrive.”

“Oui!” the Arab soldier who had called Kang Chan a chick answered. It seemed his name was Khalid.

"Go get some coffee," Gillot ordered.

Khalid hesitated for a moment but still stood up.

"Khalid!" Gillot called again. He tilted his head and looked up at Khalid, who had just risen from his seat. "The rules of our team don’t change just because we have a new member."

As Gillot spoke, the ash from the cigarette hanging from his mouth fell to the floor.

"When I give an order, you respond."

A tense atmosphere filled the transport aircraft for a brief moment.

"Oui," Khalid reluctantly responded. With a nod from Gillot, he moved slowly.

"Channy."

It seemed to be Kang Chan's turn.

"Oui," Kang Chan answered plainly.

"Welcome to our team. This operation will decide whether you become a full member or not. One more thing.”

Gillot took out a new cigarette just as the aroma of coffee quickly filled the aircraft.

"Since you haven’t received our training, you will have to take care of yourself. Think of this operation as an observation."

Gillot looked at Kang Chan as if expecting a response.

"Oui."

By the time Kang Chan responded, Khalid had returned with a large paper cup of coffee—the kind one might get at a burger joint. He had placed it on a torn-off side of a wooden crate.

Khalid handed the coffee to Gillot and then walked toward Kang Chan, distributing coffee to the seated soldiers with a wave of his hands along the way. Honestly, coffee without cream or sugar smelled good but was bitter—Kang Chan didn’t want to drink it.

When Khalid reached Kang Chan, he lowered the empty board with a sly expression.

"You don’t get one. Go make some yourself.”

Cheap bastard!

It was a relief that Kang Chan didn’t want the coffee in the first place. Otherwise, he might have felt deeply humiliated.

"I don’t need any, so don’t worry about it."

"Go make some.”

It was clear that if Kang Chan refused, Khalid was ready to give a sharp response. Kang Chan slowly turned to Khalid, who seemed ready to take out his frustration from Gillot’s scolding on Kang Chan.

Nevertheless, Kang Chan just smirked.

"Go! Make some coffee! You chick!" Khalid yelled.

Holding coffee in his left hand and the board in his right, he assumed a stance that made it clear he intended to either strike Kang Chan with the board or pour hot coffee on him if things went awry.

No one intervened; they were content to watch and see how Kang Chan would handle the situation.

Hesitating at a moment like this meant losing. So did calculating the aftermath.

Smack!

Kang Chan quickly kicked Khalid’s shin with the sole of his boot while still seated. If he followed up with another kick to the falling man's face, peace would be restored. However, as soon as his attack connected, Kang Chan realized that he had made a mistake. Khalid had bent forward slightly, maintaining his stance.

Splash!

Whoosh!

As the coffee spilled, the board that Khalid swung came straight toward Kang Chan’s head.

Crash! Wham! Thud!

The board shattered against the wall of the transport aircraft. With all his might, Kang Chan punched Khalid in the solar plexus.

"Ugh!"

Crash!

In retaliation, the right elbow of the man dug into Kang Chan’s left cheek with relentless force.

The sharp pain made Kang Chan reel. He felt as if his cheek and jaw were breaking, but collapsing because of it would make his decision to fight meaningless.

Thud!

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack!

Kang Chan struck the man in the solar plexus again and then followed up with several consecutive blows to his ribs with his right elbow.

Smack!

“Ugh!”

Kang Chan thought that would be enough to bring him down, but Khalid struck Kang Chan's back forcefully as he burrowed into his chest. The shock and sharp pain spread through Kang Chan like an electric current.

Fucking bastard!

At that moment, Kang Chan felt a surge of anger like never before.

You think you can trample on those who seem weak just to show off your strength?!

Kang Chan raised his head and aimed at Khalid’s chin.

Crunch!

This time, he surely hit the mark.

Thud! Thwack! Thud! Thud!

As Khalid wobbled, Kang Chan delivered a series of blows to his neck and solar plexus, finally bringing him down like a tree that had been cut down.

Baaaaaang!

“Huff. Huff.”

Kang Chan scanned his surroundings. To his surprise, Gillot calmly offered advice as if he had enjoyed the show.

"Next time, extend your middle finger sharply. It would have ended the fight more quickly. Be careful not to misdirect your strikes, though. You could break your finger first."

After a brief pause, he asked, "Not drinking coffee?"

"I don’t like it without cream and sugar," Kang Chan answered.

"It's in the back. While you’re there, stretch your back and waist a bit. Have you trained in martial arts?"

"No."

"Impressive. They call you the God of Blackfield; the rebels in Ndulele must have had a reason for that. Now go prepare your coffee and stretch."

Gillot looked Kang Chan straight in the eye as if expecting something.

"Oui," Kang Chan answered.

It was the minimum courtesy owed to a commander. As Kang Chan moved, he heard Gillot give the order to clean up. Three soldiers walked toward the fallen man, muttering among themselves.

Honestly, Kang Chan wished there was at least one more Asian among them. Being amidst Westerners, who had entirely different thoughts, cultures, emotions, and appearances made him feel like a goose among ducks or a piece of pickled radish between onions and black bean paste[1].

Heading to the back of the transport aircraft, Kang Chan saw a thermal container with cups, cream, and sugar.

Damn it! Why did he have to provoke me into this nonsense? I didn’t even want coffee!

Kang Chan glanced back. Khalid was sprawled out, occupying space where three people could have sat.

Hold it! Hold it! Hold it!

Beating up a fallen man wouldn’t make him feel better. Moreover, it would only create more trouble. Kang Chan poured coffee into a paper cup and added cream and sugar. Every time he moved his face, a crunch came from his left jaw. Moreover, bending and straightening his back caused the bruised areas to ache.

These guys here sure can take a beating like that bastard Smither.

“Haaa.”

At least the sweet aroma of the coffee was comforting. When Kang Chan slowly walked back to his seat and sat down, Khalid groaned and sat up, then shook his head.

"Nngh.”

1. In Korean and Chinese restaurants, pickled radish, onions, and black bean paste are commonly served as side dishes, with diners often dipping the onions into the black bean paste. ☜

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