Chapter 103 - International Expansion (Patreon)

<---Chapter 102 - Insurgency|Table of Contents|Chapter 104 - Catacombs--->

Two weeks later...

The sweltering heat blasted down on the dry, cracked earth of the refugee camp, and the devastation it wrought on the surroundings has spread even further in the months since its establishment. More and more streamed in from neighboring villages and towns, evacuating in the hopes of escaping to Tenar. Yet not all were brought here against their own will.

The snaking queue to enter the camp was jampacked with refugees lugging everything precious to them, cowering under flimsy makeshift cloths to shield them from the blistering heat and the gusts of dirt that surge through the queue at regular periods. In the midst of the queue, a young, hopeful man gaped in awe of the looming walls of Ocra that seemed to block the entirety of the horizon beyond, the rest dotted by secondary forts laid out in defensive positions overlooking the desecrated fields.

As he took in the view, he suddenly was forcibly shoved aside by a rough hand on his shoulder, his body toppling to the floor while his mouth tasted the dusty ground. Infuriated, he scrambled back to his feet, intending to fight the man who pushed him out of the queue, only to recoil, intimidated at the sight of the man instantly.

He bore countless black swirling tattoos that glistened under the light across his tanned body, some of which seemed to be counting into the hundreds. In his burly left hand was a long arctech chain that was attached to the handcuffs of two prisoners trailing behind him, the prisoners' heads covered in a black sack that blocked their vision. The young man yelped in fright, scampering away from the trio, unwilling to fight the tattooed man who was seemingly larger than life.

His vicious eyes scanned the queue ahead of him. Those who met his gaze immediately gave way, allowing him to walk closer and closer to the entrance of the refugee camp, save for one brave soul: a grimy, soot-covered blacksmith, his arms as thick as logs. He crossed one over the other, stopping the tattooed man dead in his tracks.

"Who said you could just waltz in like-" The blacksmith barely got the words out of his mouth when the knuckles of the tattooed man's right fist collided with his jaw, the force cracking apart the bone beneath and sending him sprawling onto the ground, blood spilling out his mouth.

The tattooed man ignored the screams and cries of the blacksmith's family, merely spitting a glob of saliva and mucus on the ground before pointedly stepping over the blacksmith's body towards the front of the queue. This time, no one dared to raise a finger against him, the line of refugees parting like frightened Tusken Rabbits in the daytime. A slight grin appeared on his face, clearly elated by the pride and respect now awarded to him.

Unfortunately, the Versian soldiers guarding the queue were far less intimidated. Three recruits immediately aimed their rifles at the tattooed men, fanning out and surrounding him. "Put the chain down and place your hands in the air!" one of the recruits shouted nervously, the shaking in his grip visible.

The tattooed man turned to face the nervous recruit, his eyes boring deep into the recruit's soul as he spoke slowly. "Boy. You better get someone here who actually recognizes these tattoos, or you're going to have a terrible time in Ocra."

"Wha..." The nervous recruit blinked rapidly, trying to process the statement in his head before a sudden hand grabbed his rifle's barrel and forced it down. Training kicked in, and the recruit launched an elbow toward his unknown assailant only to find out that it was his sergeant in charge.

"Recruit! What the fuck do you think you're doing to our esteemed veteran?!" The sergeant roared directly into his ear, nearly deafening him. Out of confusion, the other two recruits lowered their rifles as well while the sergeant stormed forward, grabbing all three of them into a line. "Can't you see the damn tattoos on his neck? This man fought in the independence war, honorably discharged as an officer! You better apologize right this instance-"

"No need for that, Sergeant Kola." The tattooed man patted the sergeant on the shoulder. "Instead of us standing around out in this heat, maybe we can get a drink together."

"O-Of course, Makoa, sir!" Kola hurriedly saluted, his boots clicking together in a military posture.

"I'm not an officer anymore, Kola, relax." Makoa chuckled.

"You'll always be my officer, sir."

"Then maybe you can pay for that drink. I am pretty thirsty - walked a long way."

"Yes, yes... what about those two?"

"These two?" Makoa scoffed. "Some Yual dogs I caught trying to smuggle Versian refugees across the border. Was hoping they would be worth something."

"We don't deal with slavery here in the military." Kola's face darkened slightly, only to have Makoa breaking out in laughter.

"Kola, Kola, still a stuck-up as always. Who said I was selling them to you? That's my business. Now, are you going to let me in or not?"

"Yes, yes, of course!" Kola immediately motioned for the gate to the refugee camp to be opened, a creaky flimsy wooden gate balanced on weak hinges swinging open, the recruits saluting Makoa as he and Kola walked past into a crowded street, with slimy foremen and pimps ready to pick off the next fresh refugee that walked through the gate. They were clearly disappointed when they saw the burly Makoa flanked by Sergeant Kola, quickly dispersing and acting aloof when the two of them walked past.

"Interesting setup you got going here," Makoa remarked as they moved through the dense waves of people, though most of the refugees made way for them, unwilling to tangle with the soldiers. Makoa could already see a few angry stares at his chains, dragging the two prisoners in cuffs behind him. The two prisoners stumbled and tripped over rocks and pebbles, unable to see their steps clearly through the black sacks wrapped around their heads. Some even began to trail them, following them through the crowd at a distance.

"We had to do what we can to save the people. This looks bad, but when the war starts, I'd rather them be alive here under protection than dead. We have multiple layers of defensive lines ready to stop any Yual advance. Secondary forts, trenches, you name it." Kola replied, kicking a broken basket out of the way, his hand gripping a handgun on his belt tightly, ready to pull it at any moment.

"You look a little on-edge given all the 'protection' you just mentioned." Makoa motioned to the handgun that Kola was gripping.

"You don't know the half of it. Some of the refugees have managed to arm themselves and carve zones of control through the camps."

"What's new? Same shit in the last war. I wouldn't have expected anything different from Masir."

"Forget Masir - sure, he was the biggest gang in Ocra, and he still is, but with such a high influx of refugees, cliques and groups are being formed and broken apart on a daily basis, fighting for rations non-stop. Let's talk somewhere else where your prisoners stop drawing so much attention." Kola motioned towards a seedy-looking shop, pushing past the curtain to reveal a small rundown bar with dilapidated furniture, mostly empty save for an old scrawny bartender and the light crackle of an arctech radio playing the regular Versian news.

[Acting President Monero has vouched that he will do everything to secure peace with Raktor in spite of recent rising tensions but will also not reduce the expansion of the Versian Military. Here's what he had to say at yesterday's peace negotiations.] The Versian news blurted out as Makoa and Kola took a seat at a secluded table near the back corner of the bar, the prisoners chained to a pillar nearby. ["While peace negotiations are certainly a possibility, our sovereignty will never be challenged again. Having rooted out the source of corruption in our government, we must take further steps to ensure that we can defend the rights we have come to love and adopt. Every Versian must do his part to protect our state from the tyranny of the Yual Dominion!"]

"Anything you'll like? Perhaps an Euria wine? They are quite popular these days." Kola turned around to face the board hanging above the bar, not noticing Makoa let out an involuntary shudder.

"Perhaps just a simple glass of water to start with before we move on to the hard stuff. I'm thirsty." Makoa suppressed his nervousness.

"Never expected to hear a drunkard like you say that, but sure." Kola raised his hand to the old, scrawny bartender, motioning with two fingers.

"Make that four glasses," Makoa called out.

The bartender shot a quick glance at the two prisoners, nodding his head. Kola turned back, eyeing Makoa suspiciously. "You're acting surprisingly nice to those two prisoners. Didn't you say they were nobodies?"

"Can't have them dying on me before I sell them off. You know Masir wouldn't take a defective product."

"When I said I was going to treat you to a drink, I didn't mean I'd treat them too."

"Put it on my tab. I'll have the cash after I sell them." Makoa leaned back onto the wooden chair, the frame creaking slightly under the weight.

Kola let out a mirthless laughter while the bartender served them the glasses of water along with a jug for refill. "I seem to recall you had a tab here in Ocra a long time ago, too. Wonder if anyone recalls it."

"I sure as hell don't." Makoa swirled the water in his glass before gulping it down in one go.

Kola watched Makoa swirled the water in his glass, before he gulped it down in one go. "What are you really here for, Makoa? Last I heard you got busted in Raktor for some unknown reason. I thought you were in jail."

"Well, here am I." Makoa stretched out his hand with a wide grin. "Tasting freedom. Can't I return to where I was born after suffering in prison?"

"I can't say it's the same Ocra you remember."

"Seems that way." Makoa murmured as he refilled his glass again. "I'm pretty much running blind here."

Kola squinted his eyes. "What would you have done if I wasn't on shift guarding the refugee camp gate?"

"Same old, same old. Break a few heads, loosen a few mouths. Much easier to have a friend tell me everything. You were saying something about Masir before we entered."

"If you're thinking about rejoining Masir, don't bother. Nobody has seen him for days; he's been in hiding for a good long while, ever since the new kids on the blocks came into town."

"New kids on the block?"

Kola leaned forward, whispering to Makoa in a hushed tone. "The Ghosts of Versia."

Makoa scanned Kola's face before a loud, unprompted laugh erupted from his mouth, slapping the table uncontrollably. "HAH! Why are you whispering like a lady wanting to elope? What kind of stupid name is that? Who the hell had that kind of naming sens-" Suddenly, Makoa caught a glint, a fearsome glare from one of the prisoners chained to the nearby pillar, sending shivers down his spine as he backtracked his words. "I mean, they do sound a bit dangerous, no doubt, but why the need to whisper?"

Kola hardly noticed Makoa's erratic behavior, far more concerned with making sure no one else was in the bar. "The Versian military hasn't officially recognized the gang, so they've banned any discussion about it. But ever since they killed an officer out in the open two weeks ago, things have been getting much bloodier."

"Bloodier...? You're the damn military! If I was still an officer, I would taken a squad and wipe them all out."

"That's the thing - we can't pinpoint their hideout. It isn't anywhere in the refugee camp, even when we raided multiple locations provided by our informants. And surprisingly, we're not the ones suffering the most damage."

"It's Masir." Makoa summarized, earning a nod from Kola. "So these... 'Ghosts' are currently set to takeover Ocra?"

"Right now, it could be said that the Ghosts run the majority of the refugee camp, but Masir still rules the city proper. As I said, no one has seen Masir come out yet."

"Maybe hiding like a little pussy."

"Don't say that in public, still loads of Masir's men vying for control in the camp. You never know when they are listening in."

"Still paranoid as always." Makoa shrugged off Kola's concern. "I doubt Masir even remembers me at all.... enough about him anyway. What's the deal with the war now? I heard they were going to try some negotiations?"

"Maybe... but I doubt it would come to anything. From our view, Count Leon's military exercises have continuously pushed the limit. Some of its artillery fire has hit villages and towns nearby, resulting in the creation of this refugee camp. I don't see how the citizens of the Yual Dominion can support such an action."

Makoa simply nodded in agreement while he sipped on the glass of water, not revealing too much of his involvement in the stealing of military tech from Raktor. "Seems like we're both in for a rough ride."

"Seems that way... what are you going to do now?" Kola ventured.

"Not much. Sell them prisoners, then work out a plan to gamble my way into the capital. Should be the safest there, I'm done with anything Yual Dominion." Makoa stretched his arms, rising to get up before Kola suddenly stopped him, Kola putting his hands on Makoa's shoulders.

"Hey, hey, what's the hurry? You just got back to Ocra; we should reminisce longer." Kola smiled nervously, trying to get Makoa to sit down.

Makoa squinted his eyes. "Kola....you're not just a sergeant now, are you?"

"Makoa, I-"

"If you're going to try to trap me here, you're going to need more than a handgun." Makoa threatened.

"Oh, we got more than just a handgun." A familiar voice wafted in from the front of the bar, leading a dozen men who began to filter in through the tables and chairs towards Makoa.

"Masir." Makoa gritted his teeth, standing to his full height as Masir's men all surrounded his table, while Kola quickly scrambled to the other side of the bar behind Masir. "What did you do to Kola?"

"Nothing much, nothing much at all. He just owes me a little favor, and it seems that with such a big catch, it is duly returned." Masir patted Kola's back with a hand adorned with five rings, each glistening with a different jewel, exuding wealth. He adjusted his flamboyant shirt's collar and pants, both of which were clearly tailor-made to fit, a stark contrast to the thin, rugged clothes Makoa and his prisoners wore. "You, on the other hand, have a very big favor to return. Interest racks up after seven years, you know?"

"Heard you were squirrelling away in your little hideout, afraid of the Ghosts of Versia." Makoa shot back.

"Kola is such a good liar now." Masir chuckled, strolling through the bar up to Makoa calmly before suddenly unleashing a brutal left hook that knocked Makoa over his chair, toppling onto the ground. "You think I'm some bitch who's afraid of some new stuck-up Ghosts? Fucking country cunts who think they can run the show. Haul him back to the Chopping Block." Masir ordered his men while his gaze landed on the two prisoners still chained to the ceiling, one of whom was clearly scared out of his wits. "Who are these two?"

"Makoa's prisoners, apparently. He was intending to sell them off." Kola hurriedly replied from afar.

"Intending to sell them off?! Without even saying hi to me?" Masir exclaimed in mock surprise, looking at Makoa, who was restrained by four men.

"I was planning to pay you off with the proceeds from their sale."

"Ah, a convenient plan. You might as well have gone with the birthday present excuse. It is my birthday tomorrow, so I'll be taking these two for myself."

"You little-" Makoa tried to struggle but earned another fist from one of Masir's henchmen into his mouth, his gum now bleeding profusely from the successive hits. The four men hauled him onto their shoulders, carrying him like a coffin as they exited the bar, while Masir led the two prisoners along with the chain, tossing a tenar to the bartender. Kola had already scampered off, running back to his sergeant post.

Outside, Makoa's body was paraded through the refugee camp under the daylight, the four men intermittently beating him up on public display, instilling fear into anyone who saw them. "MASIR IS IN CHARGE AROUND HERE!" One of the henchmen roared. "NOT THE BLOODY DUO, NOT THE GHOSTS - MASIR, AND ONLY MASIR!"

Masir smiled for a while as he led the procession through the sea and bustle of refugees which naturally carved out to form a straight path. Yet there were still a few newer refugees who had just entered, unaware of what was happening. One of them, a starving lady, accidentally bumped into Masir and tumbled onto the floor, her rations spilling out onto the ground while the nearby refugees began to scramble for the free pickings.

"STOP!" Masir bellowed, the crowd of refugees freezing in motion, none of them daring to even move a single inch while he walked up to the lady and bent down, picking up the dropped flask of water. Surprisingly, he handed it back to the lady without another word, and even helped her pick up a sack of grain.

"Thank you, thank you!" The lady bowed profusely, clearly grateful for the assistance.

Masir held a gentle smile, patting the lady on the shoulder. "If you ever need help, you know who to find." He returned to the procession, leading his men back to their destination. However, as soon as he was out of earshot, he motioned to another henchman, pointing to the lady. "Get one of the little guys to beat her up, but not her face. She'll come back to us soon enough, and we'll need it for the new brothel."

"Yes, sir."

As they continued through the refugee camp, Masir's keen eyes began to spot a few familiar silhouettes and clothes, seemingly being trailed by an unknown group. He kept an aloof expression, acting like he did not know what was going on, but he still signaled with his hand to a nearby henchman, who immediately got the order and broke away from them, heading to find an arctech radio.

After a good ten minutes, they finally reached their destination - a large logistical warehouse acting as one of the ration distribution centers of the refugee camp. Makoa's vision swam with bright lights and never-ending rows of shelves as he was hauled through the warehouse, before being forced down onto a rusty metal chair in an abandoned room, his arms bounded to the coarse oxidized surface.

"Make sure whoever the fuck is dumb enough to follow us is caught or killed. I don't care if their bodies are out on the streets. Get every man we have available here now." Masir wagged a finger at a henchman before sending him off to secure the outside. "And you three, take these two prisoners down the stairs here to the waiting cells. They can be part of the next shipment to Tenar."

While Masir's men moved about, Masir himself drew up another chair nearby, plopping down right opposite the bleeding Makoa, who was still flanked by four henchmen. "So, what brings my sworn brother back to the fold? Finally got tired of playing punk in Raktor?"

"I got sick of the taste of Yual in my water. Didn't know the water here still tasted like Masir crap." Makoa grinned, his teeth bloody from the punches. As soon as he finished the sentence, Masir flew into a rage, picking up the chair and swinging its legs at Makoa's head, nailing him right in the ear while Makoa crumpled to the ground, the metal chair clanging.

"Still got a funny bone in you, huh? You think you can rip off the whole gang and just disappear for seven years and come back without a word?" Masir sneered, delivering a sharp kick to Makoa's stomach. "Not while I'm still alive, you fucking cocksucker."

Makoa coughed a mixture of blood and saliva, his face still grinning. "It was just a hundred thousand tenars, no big deal- URK!" He gagged as Masir kicked him once more in the leg, jolting pain arcing through his entire body while he involuntarily winced.

Masir grabbed him by the neck, hoisting him up with one hand. "THAT WAS OUR ENTIRE SAVINGS! Our blood and sweat, all pilfered so you can go to Raktor with that dumb General Javel and fuck about with some sluts! We fought tooth and nail beside you in the fucking war and all you can do is give up on us? On Ocra?!"

"Y...you haven't seen what's possible in Raktor." Makoa wheezed with a grimace. "You're nothing to the gangs there."

"Like I give two shits. Ocra is my kingdom, big or small. We grew up here, we die here." Masir tightened his grip on Makoa's neck, choking him while Makoa's body writhed in the air. "Not that a traitor like you would ever understand."

Despite the choke, Makoa still held a confident smile on his face. "Fe-feel free to die here alone." Makoa eked out the words through the strangling grip, causing Masir to be utterly confused.

"Is this bravado before your death, or...." Masir's mind autocompleted the rest, dropping Makoa unceremoniously onto the floor with a loud crash. "You, give me that damn arctech radio." He snatched the radio from one of the guarding henchmen, rapidly tuning the channel. "How's the perimeter? Who was the group following us?"

However, no one responded, only static echoing on the radio's speaker. Masir immediately burst out the door back into the wide-open warehouse floor and stormed up to the nearest henchmen. "How many members do we have in this warehouse right now?"

"Sir...?" The henchman stared blankly at the flustered Masir.

"Answer the damn question!"

"Uh.. uh, about fifty or so."

"Raise the damn alarm, get everyone down here and armed in a minute, or your head will be next on the chopping block. Are we clear?"

"Y-yes, sir!"

Masir rushed back into the room, heading straight for Makoa and sitting him back upright. "You! You fucking baited me out to get the Ghosts of Versia to come find me!"

Makoa merely held a small smile. "Took you long enough."

"You -" Masir's words were cut short by a loud explosion on the side of the warehouse, sounds of pellet fire whizzing and ricocheting off the metal shelves, tearing into sacks of grain while screams echoed to the ceiling. "Barricade the damn doors!" He hurriedly ordered the remaining four henchmen, who quickly bolted the door with a heavy latch.

While the battle raged on outside, Masir began to check his handgun, ensuring there were enough pellets inside. "Grab the bitch, and let's get the fuck out of here. Where's the exit?"

"Sir, through the waiting cells. There's an exit that will get us back outside the warehouse."

"Alright, let's move." Masir motioned with his handgun before another shuddering explosion rocked the warehouse violently; dust loosened from the ceiling while cracks began to form in the walls. "What the fu-"

A starling loud scream erupted from down the stairs, where the waiting cell was. Masir immediately aimed the handgun at Makoa. "What the fuck did you do?"

"You shouldn't be worried about me - you should be worried about him," Makoa muttered cryptically.

"Grrr! You, check out what the hell is going on down there!" Masir ordered one of the henchmen, but it was already far too late as he watched the henchman get impaled against the wall, right in the chest by the rusted tip of a makeshift spear, seemingly wrenched out from the bars of the waiting cell. The remaining three immediately brandished their own handguns, aiming at the staircase, waiting to shoot anyone who came up while the sounds of screaming and fighting still broiled outside.

As soon as they spotted a human head, they immediately fired with abandon, blasting indiscriminately. Yet instead of the pellets fired tearing apart the skull, the pellets were all stopped in midair by an inconceivable, invisible wall, protecting the prisoner and allowing him to dash out to the impaled henchmen and grab the henchman's handgun.

With a swift swivel, he fired three impeccable shots, the pellets all finding their marks right between the eyes of each of the henchmen.

Before Masir could even react, the prisoner shot both of his thighs and ankles, a cry of pain leaving Masir's lips as he dropped his handgun and collapsed to the ground, clutching his writhing leg.

"So, is this the best Ocra has to offer?" The prisoner muttered as he slowly walked up to the squirming Masir. "I can't say I am not disappointed."

Masir gritted his teeth, twisting his arm outwards to reach for his dropped handgun, only for the prisoner's feet to stomp mercilessly on his wrist, the feet grinding his bone against the concrete floor and sending waves of pain through Masir's body. "ARGH!"

Finally, the sound of the fighting beyond the door began to subside before a powerful magical falchion sliced through the hinges, causing the door to fall over flat with a loud crash. Makoa caught sight of the lady with the sword, his body hurriedly shirking away in instinctual fear.

[Boss, all targets are either captured or eliminated.] Sasha saluted to Kyle while the other Ghosts who trailed behind her merely stared at Kyle in confusion.

"Good work. Have the rest of the members rescue those in the waiting cell. We'll sort them out later. And as for you... you seem like you know your way around Tenar, don't you?" Kyle stepped down even harder, causing Masir to scream in pain.

"Y-you! Don't you know who the fuck you're messing with!?" Masir made a desperate attempt to frighten Kyle while he used his free hand to try and lift Kyle's feet off his wrist.

"Oh, I know exactly who you are. You're the first step to my new international expansion."

<---Chapter 102 - Insurgency|Table of Contents|Chapter 104 - Catacombs--->