Humanity Forbidden Island [Full Text] - 19

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Chapter 259: The Delicious Food Stall After

comforting Dumo, I left the hotel alone. Inside the small box the bunny girl had given me was an expensive watch.

In the city's rules, a piece of jewelry to flaunt taste is indeed necessary, but in reality, I don't need such eye-catching appearances. What truly remains loyal to a man is always healthy muscles and great strength.

The sea breeze blew along the streets of the Beiru Hotel. I liked this smell; it made me feel close to Luya and Yiliang, as if their breaths were mingling within it.

The city prepared for nightfall. Pale yellow lights illuminated the streets to the left; that area must be more bustling. I pulled my sweatshirt hood up and headed towards the throng.

Xuan Ya should have appeared. I had obtained information about the next mission from Dumo; he needed to know some things.

Passing several tall office buildings, I saw weary people hurrying home.

After walking for more than twenty minutes, I finally saw a pawnshop with glass doors and windows. It was empty inside, and the two female employees looked wary when they saw my face was covered.

I took out a small box and laid it out on the counter.

"Pawn," they said, barely suppressing a sigh of relief before their faces lit up with delight upon seeing the box. The pawnshop girl was quite generous; I pawned twenty purple euros without haggling.

I carefully folded the money, tucked it into my back pocket, and then left the pawnshop, hurrying back along the street.

Passing by the food stalls, the aromas of various stir-fries and hot pots were so strong they filled my nostrils, making my mouth water. The food sizzling on the flames was far more tempting than the braised beef in my stomach. I slowed my pace and sat down alone at a white plastic table in a corner.

A young girl with yellow skin, wearing an apron, smiled and walked towards me. She spoke a few words in French, but seeing my surprised expression, she quickly switched to simple English words.

“Can-i-do-for-you!” Her halting English, tinged with a Cantonese accent, evoked a bittersweet memory of my childhood, a bittersweet warmth rising within me.

I smiled slightly, remaining silent. If the girl misunderstood, thinking I didn't understand English, she might speak Chinese. “Sir, what would you like to eat?” A strand of hair, stained with the grease of cooking, swayed across her rosy cheeks.

“Tea, green tea,” I stammered, my lips trembling as the three Chinese characters escaped my lips with difficulty. A sense of novelty mixed with a touch of embarrassment. Eight whole years had passed since I'd spoken in Chinese. Facing this young Chinese girl, I couldn't shake off the pauses and intonation of Khmer, unable to pronounce the characters accurately.

“What?” The girl raised an eyebrow; she not only didn't understand, but she didn't even recognize my language. I felt a pang of regret, even considering switching back to English, but I persisted, continuing to try and communicate.

To quickly find my rhythm, I slowed my speech, slightly curving my tongue, and repeated… "Stir-fried green tea." I managed to say it with difficulty, subconsciously gritting my teeth to ease the pain in my mouth.

The little girl covered her mouth with the menu and giggled. She understood what I meant and immediately found me amusing. She leaned forward and looked at me with a grin, asking, "You want stir-fried greens, right?"

I smiled easily and nodded reassuringly. She smiled broadly, turned, and went into the kitchen to tell the chef.

Night gradually fell, and the streetlights shone even brighter, like fallen stars, glittering and sparkling.

To balance my nutrition and store up enough energy, I ordered stir-fried celery with sliced meat, eggs and carrots, braised mustard greens, and winter melon in meat broth. As soon as I grabbed my chopsticks, I began to devour the food.

Patting my full left chest, I saw four large plates on the table, their white bases already showing. On one plate was a red carp, held in the arms of a chubby baby in a red bib, symbolizing good fortune and auspiciousness. This family, young and old, crossed the ocean to make a living, spreading the splendid culture of this ancient civilization.

After finishing a bowl of egg drop soup with dried shrimp, I paid the little girl. She returned the extra dollar I gave her, saying I was welcome to come again. I said thank you in English, turned around, and left with her smile.

Just around the last corner from the Beirut Hotel, Raven finally appeared. He was squatting against the wall, a cardboard box full of CDs in front of him.

Hiring the vicious Shaking Slave had drained his savings, and now raising money wasn't easy. However, he wasn't making a profit from squatting there; he was just creating a smokescreen to lure me over.

"Sir, want to buy some CDs? They're very cheap..." I pretended to be curious and approached, squatting down in front of Raven, who was wearing a mask. "How much per disc?"

Raven's shout attracted a group of teenagers on roller skates and skateboards. The boys and girls embraced, calling each other "baby" and occasionally sharing deep, wet kisses.

"What do you sell?" a leading black teenager asked arrogantly.

“Bomb the Humvees. Bury the bombs by the roadside, and when the American patrol Humvees pass by, bang! Blood everywhere, arms, legs, heads spinning like tops on the ground.”

Hanging Crow gestured with his hands, describing the gruesome scene. It was less about selling and more about scaring the kids.

I picked up a VCD; these unpackaged things probably originated in Iraq. American soldiers bought them to stimulate their nerves and blood, making them more frenzied when they fired, and blurring the lines between targets.

The resistance would then film this “madness” and spread it to their people, intensifying hatred, fulfilling political needs, and making it even harder for the innocent to remain neutral. They would always be the biggest victims of war.

“Shit! Compared to American disaster movies, what’s this?! Did you shoot this with a 300,000-pixel camera, the kind with static?” The black boy finished speaking, turned to look at his white companions, and they all laughed.

A scantily clad, heavily made-up little girl even stuck her tongue out at Hanging Crow and raised her middle finger with black nail polish. She was probably frightened by Xuan Ya's description, but out of rebellion and pride, she had to maintain a thick facade, just like that fingernail.

"I want pornographic discs, preferably Japanese and Western ones..." The black boy, seeing that Xuan Ya wasn't a local and was hunched over in a small ball, suddenly adopted a bandit-like tone.

"No! Want to see those where hostages are shot? There are cut-off penises and nipples, perfect for you. Come on! Don't be so weak, always chewing on self-inflicted suffering." Xuan Ya's eyes gradually turned cold; these naive city teenagers were wasting our time.

"Fuck." The black boy kicked the cardboard box containing the discs in front of Xuan Ya. "Where did you come from? Looking for a beating? Believe me or not, I'll call my buddies and have them come and kill you."

After his outburst, the black boy was smug. He pulled out a cigarette, took a deep drag, and before he could exhale, he was slapped across the face.

Chapter 260: An Unexpected Provocation

"Why don't you do it yourself?" Two crisp slaps rang out. "Why don't you do it yourself?" Two more crisp slaps rang out.

Xuan Ya questioned him while angrily slapping him across the face. I didn't speak, because he hadn't hit hard; he only wanted to teach the boy a lesson.

These children, thickly veiled by the dust of the concrete jungle, were hypocritical and cowardly. They used the power gained by selling their dignity to bully the weak, and after a moment of pointless smugness, they would hide in deserted corners, letting their violent renters play with and dominate them, forgetting the value of their own hands.

"Remember, your smile is far more protective of you than your childish fists." Xuan Ya glared with cold eyes, the black boy he was holding in his right hand now dangling in the air.

"Go! Come up and hit him!" The other boys and girls, hearing the black boy's shout, were terrified and ran away. These sweet little darlings disappeared in the blink of an eye, like startled birds in the forest.

Raven wasn't usually easily angered. The pirates on the Sea Demon had skinned him alive, fueling his hatred. These teenagers, provoking him now and hindering his revenge, were bound to suffer.

Fortunately, the black boy was still able to curse Raven after running away, indicating he wasn't seriously injured. If Raven had punched him like an enemy, the boy's skull would have cracked instantly.

The sea breeze picked up, and I squatted down in front of Raven, pulling my hood up tighter

. I casually flipped through some CDs while talking to him. "I just went to the pawnshop and got some money. If you're short on cash, take it," Raven chuckled after hearing my words.

“Keep it. I can sell the guns. Remember the FN57 and Barrett I gave you? I have over forty of them. When I don’t have enough pocket money, I sell a few on the black market. They fetch a good price, better than gold.”

I don’t know if Xuan Ya was just trying to comfort me or if he really had that many expensive weapons. Since we started working together, he must have sold many of his beloved items to fund our plans. I understand. This guy only has hatred; money is like a stone in a river to him.

“I bought you a map of Somalia. It’s very detailed, depicting the savanna, mountains, forests, rivers, and mudflats with great accuracy. Keep it safe.” I tucked a 20-centimeter-long map into my sleeve with my hands buried in the cardboard box.

“Tomorrow evening, I will board the ship with you and officially enter the real battlefield. Currently, you don't have nearly enough bullets. Forget about killing the Pirate King with one shot; just getting rid of those chaotic warlord forces might exhaust your ammunition.”

After saying this, Raven paused for a moment, called away two customers buying DVDs, and continued, “The money you need has been prepared, but it's not much. If you need it, I'll find a way.”

I thought for a moment, slowly exhaled, and said worriedly, “Okay, alright! Dumo and I will land at Kismayo Port and then head down the Juba River to Abra. Jason Jodi on the Sea Demon wants us to clear that area first. To be honest, I don't want to actually encounter the true Pirate King; that 'fate water' is too mysterious, and I'm not confident.

” Raven silently nodded in agreement. “Don't worry, if the real Pirate King were so easy to track, the two assassins hired by the Somali sailors would have already succeeded before you even arrived.” "

The humidity from the sea breeze intensifies, and the neon lights will soon be submerged in the rain. (Web users please log in to '佗剩?сν' to download the txt novel, mobile users log in to wàp.16k.сn)

"Hantiannu is currently carrying out a mission for his previous employer. In two or three days, he will head to Somalia to assist us. At that time, the pressure on you and me will be relatively less."

Xuanya smiled, as if guiding me to remain optimistic. He didn't understand that every time it rains, I especially miss Luya and Yiliang, remembering them wearing wolf hats and running with me through the mountain streams.

"That guy with the mask, go and beat him up." That black teenager really did bring a group of thugs.

They were dressed in various clothes, all bare-chested and chewing cigarettes. One man and two women wielded iron chains, four fat youths carried baseball bats, and the last guy to get off the small van was leading a brown Tibetan mastiff.

In this light, the saying 'man relies on dog' is quite apt.

Xuan Ya raised an eyelid, glanced at them, slowly stood up, and clenched his fists, waiting for them to approach. Two girls among them, their black eyeshadow resembling that of a panda, screamed and cursed before even getting close enough to start a fight: "Damn it, you dare to act wildly on my turf? I'll cripple you today..."

I glanced at Xuan Ya, a helpless smile playing on my lips, and shook my head at him. These thugs, their words were viciously harsh. They were competing to outdo each other in playing the toughest, seemingly not there to fight, but merely to mask their inner cowardice.

There was a great Chinese democratic writer who once inspired his people: "True heroes dare to face the dripping blood; dare to face the bleak reality of life." But this group of young thugs only dared to face the dripping blood of the weak and the bleak reality of others; only in this way could they avoid their own problems and evade responsibility.

"The police will come, let's run," I said, turning to Xuan Ya, hearing the cracking sound of his clenched fists. These thugs, thinking they were about to beat up a street vendor from out of town, were unaware they had provoked a super-powerful assassin.

If Xuan Ya wanted, he could kill the man and dog in less than a minute with his bare hands.

"Okay, fine! Run." Xuan Ya wasn't stubborn; he knew what was best. The moment he readily agreed, he shot off like an arrow, abandoning the cardboard box of VCDs—I suspect they were empty.

The wind whistled past my ears as Xuan Ya led the way, me close behind, heading straight for the long, winding alley ahead.

Seeing us run, the thugs grew bolder and gave chase. "Kill them both! Don't let them get away! Awooo...ah..." came the scream of a girl behind us. She must have found it thrilling, even more exciting than being gang-raped by thugs.

The alley was deep; we almost reached the end only to find the bend blocked by a high wall. The sounds of men snarling and dogs barking erupted from behind. They gave chase relentlessly; feigned weakness had triggered their cowardly nature and fueled their tendency to imitate violence.

"Go!" commanded Hanging Crow. He continued running ahead, forcefully pushing off the side wall, his body leaping into the air, landing with a thud on the high wall. His agile figure, like a gecko,

swiftly climbed to the top. I followed closely behind, my fingers digging into the cracks in the brickwork, using the momentum of my jump to quickly ascend.

The young thug who had caught up first suddenly stopped. He craned his neck, frowned, and exclaimed in astonishment, "Oh! Shit, Spider-Man!" The thugs who followed stood frozen in place, mouths agape, staring up at me and Hanging Crow as we rapidly climbed.

Chapter 261: The Burning Soil of Life

. Climbing onto the rain-soaked rooftop, Hanging Crow and I exchanged a nod and ran off in opposite directions.

The neon lights of the night market mingled with the soft, fine rain, creating an orange-yellow mist

. I jumped down from a few rows of low walls and walked back to the Beiru Hotel along the damp street. Dumo was still in his room, reclining on the soft bed, his black feet swinging leisurely up and down. He was quite pleased with himself; he had gotten a cookbook from the girl in the corridor and was studying cooking with great interest. The food he had eaten these past few days had made him acutely aware of his shortcomings.

So, he had a new idea: when he returned to the Blue-Eyed First Officer's nuclear submarine, he would surprise the pirates, most of whom were from the countryside, and then no one would underestimate the Kodo Beast's culinary skills.

I took off my wet clothes and handed them to the hotel staff to wash and dry. When I came out after a hot shower, the door to my room rang. A bunny girl held up a brand-new tracksuit, blinked her long eyelashes at me with a smile, and looked at me with a charmingly mischievous expression.

"Thank you, I was just worried about not having any clothes to change into." She seemed quite pleased to hear me say that. This alluring woman, once again nestled against my firm, broad chest, slept soundly until dawn. She was weary of physical desires, greedily seeking spiritual pleasure.

Around noon, Du Mo packed his bags. The bunny girl, sensing our impending departure and the possibility of packing personal belongings, discreetly slipped out of the guest room. As she closed the door, her melancholic eyes gazed at me intently for a moment.

Her emotional world seemed to lack a poignant beauty of parting. This sensual beauty, like a scarlet mushroom, flourished in the concrete jungle, only to wither away within it. I was merely a passerby; my world-weary appearance was nothing more than a quick emotional meal for someone else.

A large wooden crate crammed with our purchases, Du Mo and I dragged our heavy luggage to the West Bank pier by taxi. The rain that had begun last night was still drizzling. A dilapidated ferry, covered in reddish rust, resembled a weary giant, resting against the pier.

Few passengers were heading to the east coast of Africa. They were ragged, their lives seemingly weighed down by misery. Heads bowed, they moved slowly and sparsely onto the deck.

"Hurry up, hurry up! The ferry is leaving soon. If we catch a storm, you're out of luck. I don't want that!"

A black man with a blue sailor's hat askew shouted impatiently at the slow-moving passengers through a portable megaphone.

From Mauritius to Somalia, the behavior of these officials changed. The curses and complaints in their words alone revealed their respective environments. The Somali government remained divided, and the chaotic armed conflict brought unspeakable suffering to the local people.

"Mr. Zhuima, we're getting closer to my hometown. Unfortunately, I have no relatives left. This trip back has only made me feel desolate. Somalia is chaotic, a land where killing is legal. No matter how much blood is spilled on the grass, it will quickly evaporate and disappear,"

Dumo muttered to me from behind. I didn't answer, only quickened my pace to board the ship.

"Damn it, dragging a coffin to Somalia? They have crematoriums there. You don't even need to wait for the scorching equatorial sun; the children and women will pour crude oil on you and burn you to a crisp. It's completely unnecessary. Just bring an urn; that would be much easier! Hahaha..."

A dirty white hat with a black brim was askew on the ferry attendant's head, trembling with mocking laughter.

Dumo was instantly enraged, his fiery eyes almost rolling back into his dark eyelids. The wooden crate fell heavily to the ground from his grasp, but he had already darted to the laughing attendant, grabbed his collar, and launched into a tirade.

The ferry attendant, forced back by Dumo's fierce gaze, his face contorted with fear and unease, a forced smile playing on his lips.

These emaciated African passengers, shrunken by hunger and panic, seemed to shrink back. Dumo, already stout and tall, now stood among them, and if he inhaled and straightened his back, he resembled a camel among sheep.

Forget about being punched on the head by pirate soldiers; just seeing Dumo's imposing figure emerge from the crowd would be enough to terrify this cowardly bully.

Seeing the sleazy, timid fellow clutching his nearly fallen hat and frantically waving his other hand in apology, Dumo's anger subsided.

The dilapidated ferry's whistle emitted a hoarse wail, the ship swayed from side to side, and slowly left the dock, heading towards the vast ocean ahead.

Dumo, dragging his wooden crate, walked ahead of me, as if he had already set foot on the African soil, the land that gave him birth and nurtured him, unable to hide his excitement at returning to water.

Below the ferry deck was a large warehouse, where passengers squatted in small groups. Now, I could not only rest on the heavy wooden crate, but also curl up and lie down for a nap.

Night soon fell over the sea, and Dumo told me that if it was night at sea, the peninsula city we left should also be in darkness by now.

I smiled without saying a word; he carried the weight of city life with him, while my heart was filled with longing as the northward-bound ferry tightened.

At midnight, the ferry was approaching the equator when several ferry crew members took off their hats and cheered on the deck. Dumo heard the commotion and went out to take a look.

A patrol plane, its headlights blazing, was following above the churning white water above the helicopter's tail. The light was too diffused for Dumo to discern the helicopter's country of origin, but that didn't matter; at least the helicopter wouldn't board the ship for inspection, so I felt relieved.

Along the Gulf of Aden in northern Somalia, extending to its southernmost point, pirates frequently raided fishing or transiting vessels from various countries. Therefore, international military forces combating piracy have increased accordingly.

Those guys on the plane have no idea what Dumo and I are going to do. While they're touring the ocean, they can also fire on armed fishermen. If they hit, the target will inevitably be a pirate.

Somalia is war-torn and impoverished. Coastal fishermen lack advanced fishing techniques. Even though the territorial waters are rich in fish, these thin, dark-skinned poor can only watch helplessly as foreign ships arrive empty-handed and leave laden with fish and shrimp.

In this situation, there's no need for Nazi or fascist incitement; simply throwing rifles at the feet of hungry fishermen will drive them to pirates.

Thus, friction with foreign ships escalates from shouting across the water to shooting at each other, and the struggle for fish and rice gradually turns into petty theft. Finally, they simply become piracy, plundering and pillaging.

These impoverished people have no stable national support, no leverage for technological advancement; they can only risk their lives—the lives of others, and their own. The conflicts arising from a nation's backwardness far outweigh those arising from its progress.

Chapter 262: The Unexpectedly Docked Ferry

When Dumo went up to the deck to assess the situation, the ferry attendant he had previously reprimanded also saw him. Seeing seven or eight accomplices around him, the man immediately decided to gang up on Dumo.

Dumo was squatting on the floor, rummaging through a large wooden crate for food. I kicked his heel, and Dumo turned his face with a grin, but seeing me raise my chin towards the door, he immediately frowned, glaring angrily at the shifty-looking attendants crowding the doorway.

"It's that fat guy. When he boarded, he cursed our ship, saying our ferry attendants were filthy and smelly. I argued with him, and this kid even threatened me, wanting to fight us." The guy who had been helping passengers board in the evening had removed his askew hat and was standing on tiptoe behind a group of attendants, urging them on.

"If they don't come in, ignore them," I said coldly to Dumo. He grunted and withdrew his fierce gaze.

Those guys knew that Dumo was a big guy, and if it came down to a pack attack, they might not come out on top. Besides, Dumo had me, a broad-shouldered, burly man, sitting next to him.

They gestured for a while, but ultimately didn't stand up for their sleazy colleague. Even feigned righteousness had to consider the opponent; after all, they weren't fighting skinny, emaciated African slums.

"Hey! Why bother with him? They'll suffer enough when they get to Somalia. Let's go, let's go, go wash up and go to sleep!" a gruff-voiced ferry attendant said, feigning magnanimity. Everyone echoed him, and they scattered in an instant.

"Damn it, you really dare to come here looking for trouble? I'll throw you all overboard in the dark, floating on the icy, dark Pacific Ocean, scared to death before the sharks even come to eat you, hehehehe..." Dumo muttered to himself jokingly, but I knew he really would do it.

As the surrounding environment gradually deteriorated, Dumo's aggression became increasingly apparent. On this ship bound for Somalia, even killing a few abusive ferry crew members would allow for an easy landing on the Somali coast.

In a war-torn land, where fierce fighting and gunfire were commonplace, no one cared about the life or death of a crew member. This was different from the voyage to Madagascar; there would be no more police, and the law was a naked survival of the fittest.

The ferry cabin was dimly lit, and crows were likely mixed in with the passengers. I didn't try to identify them, lest Dumo notice anything. It was nearly dawn, and Dumo and I had been dozing on the wooden crate for two or three hours. The old, peeling walls creaked and groaned with the rocking of the seawater.

I sat up gently, bowed my head for a minute, and took out a hair tie from my pocket to fasten my long hair. The Black passengers, their shoulders draped with red checkered drapes, looked like frozen chicks, their drooping eyelids etched with dark, dry wrinkles.

Their chins slumped, supporting their drowsy heads; the weariness ingrained in their bones seemed forever unable to melt into sleep. I opened the wooden crate under my bottom, took out a sausage, and filled my empty stomach.

Instantly, the aroma of meat filled the cabin, waking many impoverished passengers from their hunger slumber.

Many men and women huddled on the planks, their deep black eyes fixed timidly on me, involuntarily bobbed their Adam's apples. They were terribly poor; having spent their ticket money, they could only return home hungry.

I felt a little embarrassed. Among the passengers were many children, and among these emaciated boys and girls, dark, burning eyes gleamed as they stared blankly at the food in my hand. At that moment, I deeply realized that there was no longing in these children's eyes; they had lost their longing, or perhaps longing had lost them.

There was plenty of food in the wooden crate, but I didn't take it out to share with them; doing so would only cause a disturbance. This was a global problem, a problem of humanity itself, not something that a small wooden crate could solve. Acting impulsively would only ruin my plans and the lives of others.

I knew all too well that Somalia, the land that awaited us, would test both Dumo and me with heat and hunger. "Hmm, babbling..." Dumo, lying on the crate with his arms crossed, smacked his lips a few times, then rolled over and continued to sleep.

After finishing a packet of cured meat and drinking some juice, I finally felt time speed up. When Dumo opened his eyes, the ferry had already crossed the equator and was slowly sailing along the right side of Jowai Island. In a few dozen minutes, after passing Koyama Island, Kismayo Port would be in sight.

However, the creaking of the wooden planks in the cabin walls was getting quieter and quieter. Dumo glanced at me, and I was slightly startled as well. The ferry stopped slowly between Jowai and Koyama Islands.

"Even these poor people's boats are being targeted by pirates. Do they want to capture these people for food?" Dumo looked suspicious. He couldn't guess why the ship had stopped, except that pirates would intercept ferries.

Dumo and I sat motionless on the wooden crate. If pirates did rush onto the deck, as long as they opened the cabin door, Dumo and I could kill at least five or six with our FN57 pistols. We could then pick up their rifles and take out the rest of the pirates. Although we hadn't landed on the Somali coast yet, the battle had already begun.

Chapter 263: Cheaply Sold Flesh and Blood

"Whoosh, whoosh..." A blinding beam of light shone into the dimly lit cabin. Many passengers hurriedly raised their hands to shield their eyes, squinting for a long time before staring blankly at the cabin door.

"Wake up, wake up! The ship is about to reach Somalia. Your feet will soon be on that land. However, who knows how long you can survive in a place where bullets fly everywhere? You might not even have the chance to board another ship."

A burly, bearded flight attendant, wearing shiny leather sandals, followed closely behind him, carrying a basket of fresh fruit and roasted meat. It seemed this burly, bearded man was a supervisor, like the foreman among the flight attendants.

He walked over with his hands, nails stained with grease, as if inspecting his flock of sheep in his pen, his greedy and smug gaze sweeping over the black passengers who were clutching their children and hurriedly trying to escape.

"Don't panic! I have plenty of food and a thick wad of shillings. Anyone who doesn't want their children to die in the Somali hail of bullets can take whatever food they want from the basket and receive 40,000 shillings."

He finished speaking smugly, then spat heavily onto his right index finger from behind his back, chuckling as he counted the banknotes. His affected manner, deliberately rubbing the banknotes together, was meant to irritate the eardrums of these impoverished passengers.

In the dimly lit cabin, the many dark eyes that had been glued to the scene suddenly lit up. The parents and children stared intently at the shillings in the chubby, bearded man's hand, then glanced at the fruit and roasted meat in the basket behind him. Suddenly, their withered Adam's apples bobbed incessantly, like frogs in a rice paddy after rain.

"Hehehe, hahaha..." Looking at the hungry eyes of these impoverished black people, the chubby, bearded man grinned with boundless satisfaction, as if he had replaced God and become the all-powerful ruler.

Dumo was craning his neck, his eyes wide like a buffalo's, but when I glanced at him, he quickly pulled his neck back and whispered, "These guys want to exchange food and money for their children, then resell them at a higher price to transnational human traffickers. When I was twelve, my parents sold me to work on a cargo ship, but I ended up becoming a pirate."

After Dumo finished speaking, my confused expression eased slightly, and I nodded gently, continuing to watch the ferry attendants who were buying other people's children and laughing shamelessly.

"Oh! I'm easing your burdens, changing your children's fate, providing them with the heirs of wealthy families, ensuring they'll never go hungry, and no one will dare bully them. Besides, if your children find good jobs in the future, won't they come back to repay you, taking you away from Somalia forever, away from that hellhole where bullets and heads fly everywhere? Isn't that right? Huh?"

The fat, stubble-faced man grinned lewdly, painting a picture of a better life for these impoverished African passengers while secretly cursing them for not being easily swayed and not readily agreeing to the deal.

"Damn it, if you keep spouting nonsense, I'll rip your tongue out!" Du Mo gritted his teeth in fury, completely consumed by his rage. Even without Du Mo's explanation, I could imagine the fate of these boys and girls bought cheaply.

Back in Southeast Asia, I was ordered to assassinate a greedy and perverted tycoon. He had adopted many girls, nominally calling them his children, but secretly using them as tools to satisfy his lust. Some boys were also subjected to sexual crimes.

Some even more despicable businessmen used these tragically orphaned children as tools for pornography. Rows of eight- or nine-year-old girls lay on wooden beds, being deflowered one by one by a business tycoon who had won the opportunity through underground bidding.

The bloody videos were then posted online, further expanding their money-making reach.

Naturally, some inhuman beings enjoyed watching this kind of thing, marveling at it, then eating and drinking their fill before falling asleep.

Before joining the pirates, Du Mo had suffered countless inhuman abuses; I understood his burning anger—it was similar to my own childhood.

"Haha, not bad, not bad. You hand the child over to me, and I guarantee she'll live as a princess in a rich family someday. Otherwise, she'll just go home and eat you dry, and who knows, she might die in the war someday. Wouldn't that be a waste of food? Hehehe..."

The chubby, bearded man was quite pleased with himself. He had finally bought a thin, dark-skinned seven-year-old girl. Facing these black passengers who had gone abroad but couldn't make a living and were now returning home with their children, he strolled back and forth with a smug air. His round belly was even more exaggerated by his hands-behind-his-back posture.

"What, just one? You'd better hurry. Once the ferry docks at Kismayo Port, you won't have another chance to do this. At that time, they'll be like rotten cabbage leaves, riddled with bullets, worthless."

The chubby, bearded man quickened his pace. He had been waiting for a long time, but no other poor black man was willing to sell the child he was holding. He couldn't help but show his impatience.

The middle-aged Black man, who had just sold his youngest daughter, had skin that was completely limp on his thin bones. He loved his daughter deeply, but fate had driven him to desperation. The ramblings of the fat, bearded man were like a mirage in the desert, making him completely believe and place his hope in them.

He frantically tore at the roasted meat, coughing several times as he choked, but he didn't stop, only pounding his chest with his thin, long fists as he continued to swallow.

Chapter 264: The Punishment of the Spirit

"Fine, since you don't cherish this opportunity to change your fate, I won't say anything more?" The fat, bearded man briefly closed his bright eyes, finished speaking with a pitiful expression, turned and waved angrily at the ferry attendant, and strode out of the cabin.

The thin, dark-skinned little girl, resembling a piece of sandalwood, was nestled in the arm of one of the attendants, her eyes wide with terror and helplessness, until she reached the corner of the cabin door, her pleading gaze for her father abruptly severed by the door. His father, tears streaming down his face, shared food with his two slightly older daughters behind him.

"When I was little, I was weak and someone carried me away with one arm. Now, my arm is thicker than their thighs, so I can carry these bastards." Du Mo smiled bitterly. In the little girl who had been carried away, he seemed to see his own childhood self, and sadness and sorrow welled up in his heart.

"No!" As I spoke, I raised my arm and grabbed Dumo. "Even if you get the girl back, she'll starve to death beside her father." After I finished speaking, Dumo glanced at the father and his two daughters, sighed bitterly, and sat heavily back in the wooden crate.

Dumo was right. He was very strong and powerful now. Taking down a few ordinary people with a few punches and kicks was as easy as a snake eating tadpoles. Moreover, we had the large wooden crate as our backup. The weapons and food inside ensured that we wouldn't have to ask for help or depend on anyone.

However, Dumo forgot one thing: his violence couldn't be food. Even if he knocked down a few thugs, the black man and his three daughters would still go hungry and remain trapped in suffering. And Dumo's impulsiveness, like a biological invasion, was disrupting a fragile social order and bringing trouble upon himself.

"If you're going to kill, kill them all. Otherwise, don't show your strength." I said coldly to the agitated Dumo. He suddenly lifted his face from his hands, looked helplessly at the door, and gradually calmed down. He knew he wouldn't kill everyone on the ship.

When Dumo is calm, he's wise, just like now. He seems to remember where we came from and where we're going. The tragic scene before us is just the beginning; once we step into Somalia, even more tragic scenes will follow, everywhere we look.

"Toot-woo..." The ferry whistle sounded again, and the wooden planks on the cabin walls creaked again. The voyage had begun. Dumo asked me if I wanted to give the children some food. I firmly shook my head. He didn't say anything, and lay back down on the wooden crate to calm himself.

My right ear twitched involuntarily, and my eyes quickly darted to the cabin walls. The creaking of the planks gradually subsided. The ferry had been traveling for less than ten minutes when it stopped again, panting heavily.

Dumo sat up abruptly, his eyes wide with alarm. These ferrymen had stopped without reason just now to buy up the children of refugees on the verge of becoming refugees, making a ill-gotten profit. But now, stopping without reason again, something must have happened.

Dumo had already grabbed the pistol hidden in the wooden crate, sensing the danger as well. With a whoosh, the cabin door was flung open, and several shimmering figures rushed in, backlit by the blinding sunlight.

"Don't move! Anyone who tries to resist will be shot on sight!" Seven or eight masked men in desert camouflage, armed with AK rifles, quickly divided and aimed at all the passengers.

"We are Somali pirates. To protect our territorial waters, your children must join us, must join the fight, so they won't starve or be killed by armed men. Listen up! Anyone who refuses will be shot dead and thrown into the sea to feed the fish!"

The leader, a rather fat pirate, spoke in broken English with a hoarse, lisping voice. As soon as he finished speaking, two pirates slung their rifles over their shoulders and rushed into the cramped corners of the poor passengers. Any children around ten years old they saw were grabbed, dragged out by the neck, and pulled into large wooden baskets.

Many emaciated black children, their heads bowed and bound, were seen by the overweight pirate. Seeing the large basket crammed with shiny black boys and girls, the veiled pirate couldn't help but laugh, though a hint of panic flickered in his eyes.

"Hurry up, we still need to hijack the next ferry in our small boat," he gruffly urged his men, watching them snatch young children from the emaciated black men.

A hot-tempered pirate was trying to snatch a little girl from the arms of a withered, frail woman. The mother refused to let go of her child, screaming and resisting desperately, trying several times to bite the pirate's arm, but to no avail.

"Tap, tap-tap." The pirate actually fired at the weak woman, as if afraid her screams would reach land and attract a powerful, righteous fist, crushing the back of her head.

Screams erupted from the cabin. The weak, emaciated passengers huddled even tighter together. The fat pirate, startled by the sudden gunshot, bristled with rage and ran towards the pirate who had fired.

Two sharp slaps followed, and he cursed viciously, "Bastard, who told you to kill people on the ship? You're dumber than a pig!" After the furious outburst, two more heavy slaps followed.

I bent over on the wooden crate, my eardrums suddenly thumping, the lingering heat of the sound rushing into my brain. Dumo's teeth were grinding. Although he came from the African countryside, he was a man of principle and wouldn't get up to fight these pirates without my permission.

"Let's warm up first. You three shots to the right, I'll four to the left." Dumo finally got permission. After hearing my whispered battle plan, he sprang to his feet like a pilot ejected from a crashed plane, his right hand gripping his FN57 pistol, and fired a rapid-fire burst.

The three pirates on the left, rifles at the ready, had holes flashed in their chests and backs. Pebbles from their camouflage cloth, ripped from the bullets, scattered like bird feathers onto the cabin floor. The four pirates on the right, startled, nearly dropped their rifles.

Their bloodshot eyes bulged as they scanned the three corpses on the ground. Their probing gazes didn't fall on Dumo and me; four bullets were already flying through the air.

"Bang, bang, bang, bang!" Two pirates' foreheads suddenly seemed to open a third bloodshot eye, a single crimson tear sliding down their cheeks before they fell heavily backward, crashing into the huddled black passengers.

Another pirate, facing Dumo and me, had his hood peeking out from under his cloth, and he followed suit. Only this pirate leader, his left knee shattered by a bullet, fell to his knees with a thud.

I sat on the wooden crate, slowly withdrawing my gun-wielding arm, and said calmly, "Ask him why he keeps stopping the ship, and whether there's anything unusual happening in Kismayo Port?" Dumo tucked his pistol into his back pocket and chuckled in response.

Chapter 265: The Exploding Dragonfly at the Dock
This comical kodo beast grinned lewdly, humming a strange tune as it wiggled its hips and danced towards the fat pirate lying on the wooden plank with his knees drawn up.

The pitifully groaning fat pirate, seeing a mad, laughing giant approaching him, hurriedly used his other knee to push himself up, trying to crawl out of the cabin. On the gray-black floor, a large trail of blood was dragged by a wounded knee.

"You, what are you doing? I'm the purser of this ferry. Without me maintaining order, you can't go anywhere." The man's whole body convulsed, trembling violently. Dumo, like a masked demon dancing around a live animal during a sacrifice, still glared at him with a grin.

“No, no, no, you’re a pirate. I’m helping the chief purser on this ferry get rid of pirates. He’s thanking me profusely, hehehe…” Dumo’s playful nature was on full display, and from his sinister grin, I could vaguely sense his true intentions.

Dumo was ruthless at heart; beneath his dark, gleaming skin, a thick, brutal crimson blood flowed.

“I, I was just joking with everyone. I didn’t really want to kidnap these children. You saw it yourself, I just had a fair trade with them, everyone did it voluntarily, it’s fair.” The fat pirate became increasingly frightened as he spoke, Dumo’s charade, stripped of its benevolent facade, truly terrified him.

“Oh? Then let’s continue joking, hehehe…” Dumo was like a sharp knife, relentlessly inflicting terror on the pirate leader who had become his prey.

“No, no, look, I really am the ferry’s chief purser.” The fat pirate’s fear outweighed the pain from his broken kneecaps; he ripped off the camouflage hood covering his face and looked up at Dumo, pleading.

"Haha, it really is you! I thought you were a pirate! You scared me to death. What? You got angry because they wouldn't sell their child, so you dressed up as a pirate and started robbing? This kind of joke is really funny. Come on, let's keep playing!"

Dumo said, pulling out a roll of green euros from his right boot. "Look! Real 100-dollar notes, one can be exchanged for 500,000 shillings. Now, I'll trade with you fairly."

Dumo grabbed the chin of the fat, stubbled man with his right hand, squeezed it hard between his index finger and thumb, and stuffed a roll of green euros into his mouth. "Bite down! You can buy other people's flesh and blood, and I can buy yours. If you dare to make a sound, see? I'll cut your Adam's apple out."

The ashen-faced, chubby man with a stubble beard, his half-open mouth resembling a wax figure frozen in fear, nearly paralyzed Dumo's nerves. "Hold on tighter, grip it even tighter!" Dumo chuckled, his voice soft and urging. The man, left with no choice, gripped the sharp dagger offered to him tightly with his right hand.

"If you can't bear the pain, just bite down on Euros; it's more effective than painkillers." Dumo grinned, looking innocently at the chubby man, and squeezed his fist on the blade, as if afraid it wasn't clenched tight enough.

"Ugh, ugh..." The chubby man grinned, tears streaming from his wide, tear-filled eyes. The blade, nestled in his fist, acted like a vibrating lever, causing his entire arm to tremble violently, the tremor spreading throughout his body.

"Awooo, ahh..." The man was terrified like a child; fear, like a spell, had reverted him from his previous arrogance, greed, and evil to a state of childlike innocence. Besides fear, his cries were filled with pleading for pity. He too had tasted despair, but he seemed far more vulnerable than the black man who had sold his daughter for food.

"Alright, alright, stop crying. I'll count to three, and the dagger will lash out, and your four fingers will fly into the air with a spray of blood before rolling to the floor. But you can't take them; they belong to me. I've already paid you. Fair trade, right?"

Dumo's description was like an invisible foot stomping heavily on the chubby, bearded man's head, which was mired in fear. The man cried even harder, tears streaming down his face like a rushing stream.

"One, two, three!" As soon as Dumo finished speaking, his right hand, holding the hilt of the knife, was about to lash out diagonally like lightning. "Ah! Waaah, waaah..." The chubby, bearded man, his buttocks sprawled on the floor, jolted back with the sudden shock, and a large patch of thick yellow liquid instantly seeped from his crotch.

"Hahaha, hahaha..." Du Mo laughed, slapping his thigh. He didn't cut off the four fingers of the chubby, bearded man; the mental torture was giving him unspeakable pleasure.

"Sigh! You're human too. Don't do anything inhumane in the future. If you don't want to be treated like this, don't treat others this way. Now, I'll give you a chance to live. If you dare utter a single lie, I'll cut off your tongue."

Du Mo finished speaking viciously, pressing the sharp tip of the knife against the man's forehead, slowly sliding it down the man's nose, stopping at the side of his mouth, waiting for him to try something, then suddenly plunging it into his cheek to dig out his tongue.

"I...I...I'll talk, I'll talk, ask away, I'll tell you everything." The man grew weaker and weaker, blood gushing from his broken knee, the urine he vomited in fear diluting and spreading across the floor.

Dumo answered all my questions. The burly, bearded man explained that the first stop was to find starving refugees and sell their children for profit; the second stop was due to news from Kismayo port that fierce fighting had broken out there.

"Why the fighting?" I exclaimed, startled. Knowing I was with Dumo and had more power over him than Dumo himself, the burly man quickly straightened up and answered respectfully.

“Diva-Hant possesses well-armed forces and controls the Lower Juba region. A few days ago, Somali sailors hijacked a shipment of goods they had brought from the sea. In a fit of rage, Hant strangled more than ten pirates and hung their bodies on the masts at the dock as a sign of his anger. And then…”

“And then what?” Dumo asked gruffly, giving him no time to think. The chubby, bearded man shrank back, already shivering from blood loss.

“And then, the Somali sailors led their pirates ashore. Those rocket launchers carried on their shoulders flew around like dragonflies, destroying many ships. This ferry, though dilapidated, ultimately profits Hant, so we dare not approach for now, otherwise…”

“Or else the rockets will blow your balls off, won’t they?” Dumo interrupted, amused. “Ah, well, yes, yes,” the chubby man hurriedly admitted, hoping to appease Dumo and save his life.

Dumo glanced at me, and I nodded to him. This fat, kodo beast grabbed his chubby, bearded chin and shoved a pistol into his mouth. A gunshot rang out; the bullet exploded from the fat, bearded man's fleshy neck, shooting straight towards the wide-open hatch, followed by a sharp clang—it had probably hit the metal latch.

"Collect the rifles on the floor. I'll find a small boat. Before dark, we'll row to Koyama Island and infiltrate Somali land at midnight." Dumo, after hearing my instructions, hurriedly got up and started picking up the rifles scattered on the floor.

I spoke a little louder to Dumo, hoping the crow could keep up.

Chapter 266: Hiding in Camelthorn Green Island .

With my pistol tucked in, I got up and walked out of the hatch. The ferry crew, disguised as pirates who had kidnapped children, hadn't left anyone outside the hatch. They had no combat knowledge, yet they wanted to use the pirate battle in Kismayo harbor as a pretext to make illicit profits.

I crouched low and tiptoed onto the deck, the warm sunlight and sea breeze rushing towards me, filling my heart and lungs with indescribable joy. In the center of the deck was a small iron hut; through the bright glass, I could see a gleaming, greasy helm.

I ran close to the ship's side, making my way to the back of the bridge. My sharp gaze pierced through the crack in the door, and I saw an elderly Black man with slightly graying hair, dozing in a swaying hammock.

A dirty captain's hat covered his entire face, but the strong sunlight and the shimmering sea outside made it impossible for him to enjoy a nap. Near the hammock, on the wall, hung the old man's worn uniform. A peeling iron plaque, half-exposed beneath the uniform, bore a simplified diagram of the ferry's structure.

Without disturbing the old man, I could find the location of the spare boats. There was a small storage shed at the stern of the ferry. I quietly turned around, ran back along the ship's side, and dashed towards the shed where the boats were stored.

The warm sunlight from before had saturated my skin, which had been in the shadows for too long, leaving me feeling hot all over, with a dry, tight feeling in my neck. Back in Mauritius, if someone were tied to an abandoned factory under this level of sunlight, they would have become a dried-up corpse before noon.

I rushed to the stern of the deck, quickly lifted a square plank, and found myself in a dark, cool place. Like an ostrich in the desert, I peered inside for a while, sensing that no one was there. Then, supporting myself on my arms, I slowly lowered my feet.

The sea was bathed in intense light; it took over a minute for my eyes to adjust before I could see twelve small boats lined up in the warehouse. I chose a well-maintained, lightweight escape boat, tied a rope to one end, and threw the other end towards the bright, square entrance above.

Returning to the deck from the dark warehouse, the intense light was again blinding, and the hallucinations on my retina took another minute to fade. Like a mole emerging from its hole, I first poked my head out, looked around for a moment, and seeing that the scorching, dry deck was deserted, I leaped onto it and ran back to the passenger cabin.

Dumo had collected the seven rifles used to disguise himself as a pirate, tied them together, and stuffed them into large wooden crates. The black passengers who had been robbed also retrieved their children from the large baskets, clutching them tightly to their arms.

"There's no one on deck. You and I will go to the stern of the ferry; that's where the spare small boats are stored." After hearing my instructions, Dumo grabbed two large wooden crates and dragged them towards the cabin door.

Every movement Dumo and I made caused the passengers, already terrified, to tremble even more. Their black eyes blinked with fear, and they dared not utter a sound.

The raven must have heard our conversation, so he no longer needed to waste his energy searching for any small boats that had left alone.

Once on deck, I took one of the large wooden crates from Dumo, and the two of us, close to the ship's side, crouched low and ran towards the stern of the ferry. The old Black man in the wheelhouse was probably still daydreaming, waiting for his henchmen who had snatched children to return laden with their spoils.

Together, Dumo and I pulled the escape boat from the small warehouse up the steep ramp, then used ropes to hoist it onto the azure sea via the anchor chain. "You climb down the anchor chain into the small boat, and I'll suspend the two wooden crates for you,"

Dumo hummed in agreement, his large, fleshy backside sliding down to the stern of the ferry, slowly sinking. Despite his weight, he was surprisingly agile when climbing.

The dusty hull of the small boat, with its tangled cobwebs swaying in the waves, held two wooden crates in place. I slid down the anchor chain and sped away before the ferry could spot me.

"Splash, splash, splash..." I swung my arms, rapidly rowing the rubber oars towards Koyama Island, near the western coast. Dumo frantically opened his crates, pulled out his M25 sniper rifle, and began assembling it.

"What are you doing?" I asked Dumo as I paddled. "Fighting back! Look, the deck's so big. If a bunch of people rush up and shoot at us, we'll just capsize in the sea." I glanced at the ferry's deck; it remained empty and silent.

This large shipping vessel wasn't a warship. I had noticed it when we disembarked; I hadn't seen any long-range machine guns or cannons. Even if the ferry crew unexpectedly rushed onto the deck and opened fire on my and Dumo's small boat, the crows would slit their throats from behind.

But Dumo, focused only on escaping, surely understood this.

"Switch to rifles, use the AK-47 for escort. The small boat is rocking more than a cradle; even without a strong sea breeze, your sniping will be like a slingshot." Dumo slapped his shiny black forehead, suddenly realizing, "Oh dear! That's right, almost killed me. Hehehe..."

He chuckled foolishly, opened the wooden crate, put

his M25 back, grabbed an AK-47, and seriously aimed at the deck. I continued rowing backward, the blazing sun baking my neck. The shimmering blue seawater all around, like a solar panel, was baking our small boat.

Drifting on the turbulent water, we rapidly approached the western coastline. The huge ferry in my sight gradually blurred, and a lush island behind us began to emerge.

"Mr. Zhuima, look! Koyama Island is just ahead!" Dumo put down his rifle and shouted excitedly, pointing behind me. “Dumo, take out your binoculars and keep an eye on the island.”

He readily agreed, knowing what I wanted him to investigate. Although the island wasn’t large, if it had armed eyes and ears, approaching rashly would be certain death. Dumo loved the African land that gave him birth; we had only reached the near-shore islands, and he was like a prodigal son returning home, unable to contain his excitement.

“Seven or eight small hill-like islands, clustered together, look like a few roasted sweet potatoes topped with green salad. I think, apart from drought-resistant little lizards, no one is watching over them, otherwise they would have sunk to death long ago.”

Dumo held up his binoculars, observing and reporting at the same time. I put down my oars, took the binoculars from him, and still looked over there with unease.

Several small, fragmented islands with lush green vegetation, covered with camel thorn trees, the cascading green not completely concealing the vertical cut of the mountainside, revealing streaks of milky white, much like old, peeling green furniture, revealing the white-gray powder underneath.

Dumo was right. No one would stay on such a scorching, isolated island; it was pointless to wait for predators unless they knew someone was passing by or had pursued them there.

Chapter 267: Dumo's Chip.

The small boat swam to the middle of the scattered islands, hiding behind the mountains. Even with the best binoculars, the guys on the distant ferry couldn't see Dumo and me.

"Let's find a gentle slope, turn the boat upside down to cool off, rest until dark, and then row it to Somalia," Dumo said casually after the large ship disappeared from sight.

These small islands were like little hedgehogs covered in green thorns. The camel thorn trees offered some shade, but Dumo and I, being flesh and blood, didn't want to get pricked. Therefore, creating artificial shade by tilting the boat was the most feasible solution.

We used a rope to pull the boat up, then pulled together from both ends, turning the boat upside down. Dumo climbed to a high point, cut down a few tree trunks and branches, threw them down, and after launching the small boat, a patch of green shade appeared on the slightly flat rocks at the foot of the island.

Dumo also knew how to disguise himself; he tied the small branches to the bottom of the boat, and we took out jungle camouflage clothing from the wooden box and changed into them. The rest of the time, we lay down, drinking water and eating dried meat, waiting for complete darkness.

"Mr. Zhui Ma, that ferry will probably be stranded at sea until the next morning. After we row ashore in our small boat, we won't be able to find a shortcut to the Juba River, which will delay our journey,"

Dumo said, his plump legs crossed, chewing on a half-red, half-green mango, speaking to the boat hull above his cheek. My eardrums throbbed a few times, and Dumo realized that his voice was amplified many times over by the hull of the boat. He quickly swallowed a mouthful of fruit, embarrassed, and froze.

I twitched my ears, my hands still resting between my head and the rocks, chewing on a small blade of grass as I pondered the problem. After a moment, I said heavily to Dumo, "If there's no shortcut, we'll find one by running around it."

*Thump!* Dumo's shiny black forehead slammed heavily against the overturned gunwale. Startled by my words, he sat up, rubbing his forehead and staring at me with wide, bulging eyes.

"Mr. Chase, you mean we should avoid Kismayo Port and run around to the Juba River?" I glanced at Dumo, shifting the small blade of grass I was biting from the left corner of my mouth to the right.

Seeing my nonchalant expression, Dumo said anxiously, "You need to understand, this is very risky. It's not like running a long distance on a subtropical highway. Even if we break through the warlord alliance in Juba State, this furnace-like weather will scorch us."

I stopped biting the grass blade and considered Dumo's concerns; his words weren't without merit. The burly, bearded man on the ferry had said that the Haunt were well-armed, and traversing this territory occupied by armed men would indeed be quite difficult.

What worries me even more is that there are many desert areas along the detour route. If we need strategic depth, we might have to hide in them, and the chances of ending up as skeletons are very high.

"If not, we'll have to row to Kismayo Port, where rockets are flying everywhere. You'd better have a helmet on to protect your balls," I said, feigning helplessness.

"Oh! This..." Dumo scratched the slightly swollen bump on his forehead, looking troubled. “In my opinion, let’s abandon the waterway and go straight from this island to Buale.”

I glanced at Dumo again, asking in a cold tone, “Change the mission route? Aren’t you afraid of missing the target?” Dumo thought for a moment with lingering fear, took a deep breath, puffed out his chest, and said, “Come on, that bastard Jason Jody, he’s hiding on the Sea Demon, drinking and cuddling with beautiful girls, while we’re running a marathon on this scorching African savanna and desert. He gives us a lot of money every year, but we need to be alive to enjoy it, right?”

After saying that, Dumo angrily lay back down and continued eating the half-eaten mango in his hand.

After hearing Dumo’s words, a smile crept onto my otherwise unchanging lips. He was gradually understanding life, developing a correct aspiration for life, and the awareness that life is more important than money was gradually melting into his heart.

I hope he continues to amplify this noble consciousness until he values the lives of all kind people more than money, and the lives of Luya, Yiliang, and others more than Jason Jody’s orders.

“Alright, let’s head straight for Buale.” I readily agreed to Dumo, but he frowned and looked at me with suspicion. “Speak your mind.” I kept my eyes on the wooden ship above, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught a subtle change in Dumo’s expression.

He paused, lowered his gaze, and pondered for a moment before hesitantly asking, “You must miss the women on the Sea Demon, right?” As soon as Dumo spoke, the muscles on his dark cheeks twitched uncontrollably.

“Yes,” I replied coldly, a chill running down my spine. “Ahhh,” Dumo let out a long sigh, as if I should have been excited or furious, but instead chose to remain calm.

“Don’t you want Jason Jody to release one first?” Dumo’s words were calm and gentle, but inside, I felt like I was being torn apart by the hands of countless starving people fighting over a loaf of bread.

I secretly circulated my inner energy, using deep breaths that betrayed no outward sign to control my facial expression, maintaining a cold and indifferent demeanor.

"I want to," I replied casually to Dumo. He took a step forward and tentatively asked, "Then how should I make a request to the mission successor next time I see him? I can't exactly say you're lovesick and constantly calling for them in the middle of the night; if you don't send a girl over, it will definitely affect the mission's execution."

The more Dumo spoke, the more my heart surged. This guy's wisdom was far beyond that of ordinary pirate soldiers.

At first, I thought he had sensed my rebellious intentions, but then I realized he had subtly hinted at his meaning.

Dumo loved a good life; he hoped to live in the city, enjoying a life of luxury, staying in hotels every day. But he knew even more clearly that all of this depended on having life.

Dumo was kept in the dark about this mission, but he wasn't stupid. He didn't need to know the mission's true purpose; he only needed to ensure he was alive and could continue living.

If I fail the mission, Jason Jody will hunt me down to silence me, while Dumo can still return to his blue-eyed first mate's small submarine and continue his pirate cook duties. However, that depends on whether I give him a chance to return alive.

If this mission fails, and Jason Jody harms the women trapped on the Sea Demon, I will inevitably retaliate, fighting to the death. In that case, Dumo will be the first to be killed by me. All of this, seemingly comical and carefree, Dumo has already secretly calculated.

If he wants to survive between Jason Jody and me, he has to appease both sides. Of course, words alone are not enough; he must do something, offer tangible bargaining chips.

And now, he has finally revealed his bargaining chips to me.

Chapter 268: Unquenchable Killing Intent

Jason Jody doesn't care about Dumo's life or death; he only cares about the power and wealth on the Sea Demon. Dumo wasn't foolishly acting as cannon fodder; he had his own ideas. His initiative in offering these suggestions and actively cooperating was actually to protect himself, ensuring he wouldn't die at my hands in the future.

I pondered for a moment. Xuan Ya had said that although the Pirate King was trapped in Somalia, locating him was extremely difficult. Therefore, the successor Dumo was about to face wouldn't know the Pirate King's true location either.

Dumo genuinely wanted to help me. After so many trials, while seeking to save his own life, he also subjectively leaned towards me, hoping to do something for me.

I spat out the blade of grass I was chewing on and turned to him solemnly, saying, "You relay this message to him. Now that I've penetrated deep into the target's territory, I'll rely on my tracking abilities to locate the target and eliminate him immediately."

Dumo listened intently, his bright, bulging eyes gleaming. He seemed to have become my spy, sharing my stance. I paused slightly, giving Dumo some time to process my words, and then continued.

“It’s been almost half a month, and I can’t be sure if Jason Jody has been keeping his promise to me. So, we need to choose one woman and have her escorted to Somalia from the Sea Demon. No matter what methods they use, I must see that the chosen hostage is still safe and sound. Otherwise, I will fight back.”

After listening, Dumo frowned and hesitated for a long time. He seemed a little hesitant, so he said in a consultative tone, “We need to change our wording. Instead of getting angry at others for provoking you, let’s say that you can’t fully concentrate on the mission until you see them safe. He will naturally understand your intention. Let’s try not to provoke him.

” Dumo also paused for a moment, sorted out his thoughts, and continued, “Objectively speaking, the possibility of getting one woman back is higher. At the same time, we should also scratch his sore spot. We can’t be too ruthless. Think about it, the mission has developed to this point. He might not delay the overall situation out of spite.”

I smiled slightly and nodded to Du Mo. This guy was good at judging situations; no wonder Jason Jody sent him to accompany me on the mission. Now that we're about to step on the true form of the Pirate King, Jason Jody is naturally hesitant to act rashly and won't go toe-to-toe with me. Therefore, the safety of Luya and Yi Liang won't be greatly affected. After

all, Lian Qiutong is dead, and there aren't any replacements available on the Sea Demon in the short term. Even those two legendary assassins would take at least ten days to arrive, and Jason Jody hopes I can find the Pirate King within those ten days and fulfill his grand scheme.

"However, the location where the mission successor and I will meet again is in Buale. Only when we get there can I convey the message about needing the people to Jason Jody." "After Dumo finished speaking, he sighed deeply, as if regretting that he couldn't immediately relay my message. I understood his unspoken meaning.

Traveling directly from Koyama Island to Buale would inevitably cross areas occupied by warlords, mostly deserts and grasslands. To avoid these armed groups, risking a detour through the scorching heat of Africa would certainly not end well. Therefore, we considered that if they tried to intercept him, a firefight would be unavoidable.

If Dumo encountered danger or died unexpectedly along the way, even if he reached Buale, no one would be able to relay the message to Jason Jodi. Dumo seemed to foresee the dangers of the journey, prompting me to protect him more.

Seeing me lying there for so long, lost in thought, he suddenly sat up and said, 'Mr. Zhuima, please don't think too badly of me, Dumo. From the pirate nuclear submarine to these islands, I've been on the death list twice, but you erased my name and saved my life both times.'" "

Dumo's words made my brain rewind like a movie, bringing back some memories. He continued, 'The first time was a visible danger, in an abandoned factory in Mauritius, where you rescued me from the chemical tanks that the Iron-Faced Demon was exposing to prisoners; the second time was an invisible danger. You could have completely let my impulses run wild, but instead you repeatedly warned me, emphasizing that you considered Dumo a true partner. You know? If it were anyone else traveling with me, they probably wouldn't even give Dumo a second glance, looking down on me, a black guy from the African countryside.'

Dumo spoke faster and faster, and I glanced at him sideways; it was as if he was reciting a speech he was about to deliver. 'That night in the bar, I was cheered and surrounded by so many city people, something I never dared to dream of before. You gave me a lot of courage. I didn't get infected by the virus from those two dancers, all because you treated Dumo like a human being. I... sigh! I can't say anymore, it's all tears.'" "Hehe..."

The rambling finally ended, and Dumo's dark face began to flush. He realized he had gone a bit too far and quickly forced an embarrassed yet relieved smile to cover his newfound awkwardness.

Dumo had a habit: when he smiled awkwardly and didn't want me to look at his face, he would reveal his glaring white teeth. I always felt that he could read some of my thoughts from my eyes.

"Oh, if you die, the lives of those women on the Sea Demon will be in danger. You don't need to be grateful for that."

I dropped my previous amiability and said coldly. "Oh! No, don't think like that. Although I'm a soldier under Jason Jody, I'm a better person than him. In his eyes, this gratitude might be nothing more than a naked self-interest, but I don't see it that way. So, I genuinely want to help you." "

Du Mo spoke very seriously. I gave a curt 'Oh,' and then fell silent. Whether his emotional outburst was an act or not, I couldn't tell. But I knew he sensed my subconscious urge to kill him, so he hoped to deepen our rapport and diminish that urge, at least ensuring I would do everything in my power to protect him in a critical moment.

Even so, seeing Du Mo sitting cross-legged, occasionally grinning foolishly, deep down I still harbored the possibility of killing him. Because Du Mo was too cunning, and he was driven by a strong will to survive." That's right, but my plan with Hanging Raven will leave him with no choice.

The blazing sun, like a fireball, finally sank below the horizon, and the camel thorn bushes, camouflaged in their hiding places, began to open their eyes and coo as they took flight. Dumo and I had enjoyed a wonderful four or five hours of rest in the shade of the small boat, and we were both in much better spirits.

What worried me was the limited ammunition; in the event of a conflict, it would require a one-to-one kill ratio. Dumo was a good shot, and working with me to deal with some armed militia shouldn't be too difficult.

When shooting down warlord forces, as long as you pay close attention, you can survive the ammunition shortage period.

Chapter 269: The African Moon on the Coast.

Taking advantage of the last rays of light before the sun disappeared below the horizon, I took out the map that Crow had given me from my pocket to familiarize myself with the terrain after landing.

"Mr. Chase, this exquisite pocket map of yours must have been bought from a street vendor near the dock, right? Now we won't be like bats with a cold, bumping around aimlessly on the road, hehehe..." Dumo finished speaking and then laughed foolishly again.

"Dumo, take out the camouflage netting from our big wooden crate, tie it with green strips of cloth, and drape it over your body." Dumo said "Oh," and excitedly did as I asked.

The land on the left side of Koyama Island, due to its proximity to the sea, has a slightly higher humidity. Warm air masses bring freshwater, causing the valleys to grow lush tropical plants.

I can't see the specific terrain yet, I can only make a rough guess based on a dark green curve shown on the small map. While staying at the Beirut Hotel, Dumo and I went shopping once. Besides some food supplies, we also made a point of visiting the small shops selling military supplies from the tents along the street.

Dumo pulled a dark green backpack from a wooden crate and began sorting through its contents. I tucked the map into my pocket and started organizing my belongings as the twilight faded.

A few cool breezes rose from the sea, and waves gradually crashed against the rocks at the base of the small island, splashing water onto the bottom of the tilted wooden boat with a pattering sound.

I placed a desert camouflage uniform and matching camouflage at the bottom of the backpack, stuffed the middle with sealed solid food, seven or eight mangoes and pomelos rolled into the gaps inside, and laid five bright bottles of mineral water flat at the top.

"Mr. Zhuima, what about the herbs and bottles of liquor in the crate?" Dumo tightened the drawstring on the backpack and turned to ask me. He had already changed into his green camouflage uniform, and a long M25 sniper rifle was slung across his round, thick back.

"Find some rocks, sink the wooden crates to the bottom of the sea, and make sure the lids are closed tightly so the dried herbs and wine bottles inside don't float to the surface." With that, I pulled hard with both hands, and the bulging backpack standing upright like a pocket on my chest was secured with a slipknot.

"Splash, thud!" We pushed our respective crates into the sea, then together launched the small, tilted wooden boat into the water. The light was a deep, dark red; on the western side of the azure island, a crimson sunset obscured our view, leaving only a pair of timeless eyes watching us.

The small boat, like a fish in water, swayed with the waves crashing against the shore. The mooring rope was pinned under Du Mo's boots as he knelt on one knee. He drew a gleaming dagger, holding it before his eyes like a mirror, and applied oil to his dark, shiny face.

“Just paint your left eye green, leave your right eye blank. Remember, I have two green eye circles.” Dumo, like a fat woman applying makeup, chuckled as he outlined the corners of his eyes with his shiny black fingers.

“In the wild at night, my skin color is the best camouflage. So, black people are spirits released into the night by God.” Dumo joked a few times, still diligently applying his camouflage. He understood my intention. If we reached the coast, amidst green forests or verdant mountains, we could identify each other by the camouflage on our faces.

We wouldn't encounter just one enemy along the way. We had to be thorough and adapt our tactics accordingly. If we were to be ambushed, Dumo might be too nervous and confuse my green face with the enemy, potentially dying from a misfire.

“Mr. Chase Horse, how about this? I feel like it's going to burst and spill everywhere.” Dumo bent over, like a buffalo pulling a full load of goods, his bulging pack bobbing a few times with his deliberately swaying rear. "

I was kneeling on the ground inspecting the magazine of an AK-47 rifle when I saw Dumo's skeptical look. I replied calmly, 'Okay, this canvas backpack is sturdier than leather. Aside from bullets and daggers, no matter how much you shake your butt, it won't break. It's all psychological.'

'Hehe, that's good. I always felt this bag was of poor quality and couldn't withstand thirty kilograms of weight.' " "After Dumo finished speaking, he shook his buttocks vigorously, as if trying to prove himself to his subconscious and dispel any psychological effect.

His dark, chubby face was completely covered in camouflage paint, making him look like a panda that had just been in a fight. The camouflage netting draped over his body made him appear larger, and now he looked more like a scavenger with a cane.

I bent down and stood up, kicking the broken branches and wooden poles into the water, then shrugged my shoulders to let the straps slide to the most comfortable angle, and boarded the small wooden boat with Dumo.

At this moment, the sky was like a black curtain blocking our view. Dumo sat down on the swaying boat, pushed off the pack on his back, and began to row the small boat. It was pitch black, and all we could hear were island birds and the sound of splashing water.

I leaned against the stern of the boat, back on my bulging backpack. This position was very comfortable, much more pleasant than lying on the hard rocks. A bundle of AK rifles lay across my knees, and I continued to select weapons by sound and touch.

"Click!" The bolt clicked crisply, and Dumo instinctively looked back. "Here's a rifle for you, plus two full magazines." I said, placing an AKA weapon next to his backpack.

"Thump, thump, thump," I removed the magazines from the other five AKA rifles and tossed them all into the water. A full moon, resembling a giant white lantern, rose from the cluster of island peaks, gradually illuminating the vast expanse of water.

"Haha, Mr. Chase, first time seeing the giant African moon, isn't it? Look how much it resembles a ping-pong paddle, big enough to capsize our little boat." "Dumo joked as he carefully rowed the wooden boat.

With enough light, our little boat quickly drifted away from the center of the archipelago and into the unobstructed, floating sea.

The sky was filled with an extraordinary brightness, as if it had just been wiped clean. Dumo hummed a little tune from an African tribe and leisurely made his way to the shore. When we were a kilometer from the coast, I took out my binoculars and peered along the long, winding shoreline. I saw the outline of a undulating forest and a dilapidated, abandoned lighthouse, but no one else in sight.

"Dumo, hurry up, speed up!" I commanded Dumo encouragingly, holding up the binoculars. "Okay, hold on tight!" "This fat kodo, like a buffalo hauled in a towline on the sea, mustered its strength again and charged straight toward the shoreline where white waves surged.

"We're here, we're here, I, Dumo, am back, hahaha," Dumo whispered, imagining himself running and cheering freely. We rolled up our trousers, stepped onto the soft sand, and dragged the wooden boat into a grove of tall coconut palms.

"Don't worry, Mr. Chase, no one will notice us now. Look at the coastline on both sides, besides the reefs and the tide, it's just the two of us who are up in the middle of the night, wandering around here aimlessly." "

Du Mo spoke excitedly, a cool sea breeze gently blowing, ruffling my messy long hair. His joy infected me instantly, but a heavy worry surfaced in my heart.

Chapter 270: Walking Through the Morning Mist
It seemed that the coconut groves grew from the high ground to the coast. Only by continuing to climb higher and finding a good vantage point could we see the surrounding environment clearly. Relying solely on a map would make a big difference.

"Mr. Zhui Ma, are we standing on a mountain or a valley?" Du Mo, who was walking ahead, felt increasingly tired and couldn't help but ask me. "I don't know, hopefully it's a valley or a forest slope. There's no place to rest here. We need to see the surrounding terrain clearly before we can rest for a while. Can you still keep going?"

Du Mo took a few deep breaths and said, panting, "I can, but the weight of the luggage on my back keeps shifting backward." I felt the same way and said to Du Mo, "Be careful because the slope is getting steeper. Don't fall backward and tumble down. A fall could be very serious." "

Hehe, not at all, I was just saying. It's really boring to keep going straight ahead like this." Du Mo's pace slowed down as he led the way. Going up like this wasn't a solution; once the path ended up there, coming down would be even more difficult.

“Stop first. Cut off the side branches of this tree on the right. I need a better view.” Dumo exclaimed in surprise. His chest was almost at a fifty-degree angle to the rock face he was climbing, making it difficult to turn around and cut the tree, but he had to grit his teeth and do it.

After more than ten minutes, Dumo finally managed to cut off the canopy of the tree next to him. I took off my backpack and climbed to the top. This tree was only as thick as a thigh. The higher I climbed, the more the trunk bent under the weight. If it suddenly creaked, falling and breaking this thin little tree would be more dangerous than falling backward down the mountain.

“Mr. Zhui Ma, don’t climb any higher. This tree is almost C-shaped. It looks scary.” Dumo reminded me from below. I quickly stopped, gripped the trunk with my thighs, and strained my neck to look beyond the canopy.

Through the binoculars, a large, dark, swirling outline appeared. Looking further back, gently undulating dark lines appeared. “Dumo, we have to cross this basin-like valley to reach the gentle slope.”

I carefully climbed down, and Dumo and I rested against a tree trunk for a while before starting to head back. Aside from airplanes overhead, there was no way to reach Buale in a straight line. Dumo, dejected, carried his heavy luggage towards the mountainside, and I followed behind.

“Alright, let’s head north.” Dumo’s earlier excitement seemed to have vanished after failing to cross the mountain, and he hurried forward with his head down. The slope was much gentler, mostly only twenty or thirty degrees except for a few sections.

After a difficult night’s walk, Dumo had cut down countless trees and shrubs. As the morning mist spread, we finally reached the other side of the basin, and a wide-open view suddenly appeared before us, bringing an indescribable sense of relief.

“Ha-ho!” Dumo grinned, revealing his pearly white teeth. Like him, I was thankful that what lay before us wasn’t a vast desert or grassland. However, while the slightly undulating terrain offered unobstructed movement, it also lacked cover. If the Hant's armed forces were patrolling nearby, the risk of Dumo and I being hunted down would be extremely high.

"Dumo, before the swirling mist dissipates, we must quickly cross the open terrain." We began to change weapons, slinging the AK-47 rifle across the top of our backpacks behind our necks and clutching our long-range sniper rifles to our chests, then sprinted downhill.

Dawn should break quickly. The AK-47 rifle, with its range and accuracy of only two or three hundred meters, was disadvantageous in flat terrain. If the enemy was equipped with machine guns, bullets would sweep across like long, fiery clubs from a kilometer away. Only a sniper rifle could instantly blow someone's skull away.

Between the basin and the gently sloping terrain lurking in the distance, a small river flowed, its banks covered with lush vegetation, clumps of green and yellow extending and encroaching, the river mud being their frenzied food.

Dumo, hunched over with his pack on his back, began to follow behind me. His weapon's effective range was 800 meters, insufficient to immediately engage any target appearing on the horizon. After all, he wasn't like the Crow; I needed to protect him extra.

We waded across the stream, our backpacks half-soaked and our crotches dripping wet when we reached the other side. "This water's freezing, it hurts my balls," Dumo complained, shaking his wet thighs as he stuck out his rear.

"God's not raising crocodiles in this stream; that's already a blessing for us," Dumo chuckled. I straightened up and gazed at the distant horizon, hoping to break through the unfavorable cover of the grass before the morning mist dissipated.

"Dumo, hurry up," I called out without turning around, grabbing my sniper rifle and running. The terrain on the left flank was more undulating, with dense thickets of low trees and weeds, allowing for quick lay-down camouflage in case of emergency.

The undulating terrain resembled a table covered in green turtles, stretching unevenly to the end of the road as far as the eye could see. My soaked trousers were uncomfortable to run in, but the rising morning mist made my skin feel a little cold.

"Mr. Chase, when shall we stop for something to eat?" I ran incredibly fast, and Dumo struggled to keep up, but he was genuinely tired and too embarrassed to ask me to stop. So he used hunger as an excuse, hoping to give him some hope even without my prompting.

"The mist is almost gone. If we see a thicket or valley ahead, we can rest there. Keep running. The sausages in your bag won't fly away. If enemy bullets hit you, someone else will digest them." Though I spoke, I ran as fast as I could, not daring to waste a single moment.

"Oh, God!" Dumo's sweat-drenched face turned pale. He knew this was no joke; he was worried about being hit by bullets, but even more afraid that the enemy would take the food from his bag and eat it.

The fog receded faster than expected, and the fleshy sun rose from the eastern sea, revealing two green figures running across the African landscape. I was extremely anxious; there was still no sign of cover ahead, and if I continued running like this, I would be completely exposed.

"Ouch!" Dumo tripped and tumbled several times. I realized then that I was moving too fast, making things difficult for this large, fat kodo. "Quick, crawl over here!" I whispered urgently. Dumo's hair was covered in bits of grass; before he could even raise his hand to clean it, he rolled onto the uneven patch of grass to his left.

I was already prone on a half-meter-high sloping dirt slope, the scope of my sniper rifle pressed tightly against my eye. Dumo used his elbows to push himself up, crawling quickly towards me, then casually pushed off his backpack.

On the distant horizon, a dilapidated green truck was slowly approaching from the southeast, not moving very fast; it was clearly a patrol car. Six lean Black men stood in the back of the truck, holding AK-47 rifles and sharing a cigarette. Only two of them were dressed in military camouflage; the rest were mostly barefoot and shirtless, looking like farmers harvesting wheat. But these men all had guns; they were harvesting the heads of invaders.

"Mr. Chase, even though Hampton is supposed to be the leader of a state, why do his soldiers look so wretched, like they're all just going to work in the fields?" Dumo pulled out his sniper rifle, peering at me from my right for a moment before speaking.

"You think they're so rich!" I replied coldly and sharply, intending to warn Dumo not to say anything pointless at this crucial moment. He didn't yet realize what it would be like to have a bullet blown off your head while sniping.

Therefore, he had to develop good habits when he was with me. If he were to be facing someone like one of the Eight Killers, and his attention was momentarily distracted, the only result of failing to kill the opponent would be being killed by them.

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