Crossing the wilderness on the outskirts of Cairo, the so-called Base didn't need to be searched for.
Mercenaries collaborating with local high officials, those guys in green military uniforms with weather-beaten, fierce faces, were holding guns and swearing at each other in front of the huge iron gates.
Listening closely, they were probably talking about the women of Cairo.
As a top-tier tycoon who fled from the island nation to escape trouble, Mr. Muska hit it off with the commander who had fled without a fight. They decided to search for the legendary land: Laputa together. When the treasure surfaced, the military would use the gold, silver, and jewels to buy weapons and continue their invasion plan; Muska would get... everything.
The commander was a fat man, with a fat face, fat neck, and fat waist—straight down like a cylinder, looking like a ball no matter how you saw him. He was slumped in a chair, wrapped in a specially made plus-size military uniform, with several black telephones on the desk in front of him.
A thick brown cigar was tossed in the ashtray, filling the office with the scent of caramel.
"That damn Tiger of the Far East..."
Then came the sound of things being smashed.
The guards outside the door had long since grown used to it. Ever since their commander had fled with his Soldiers, whenever he was idle, he and his fellow guards on duty could more or less hear some of this leader's regrets and unwillingness.
As if they could have actually defeated that unit if they had stayed.
Don't be ridiculous!
The unit that landed on the island was the "Dragon," the most elite force in the Far East. He had even heard that their "Army Combat Unit," which had undergone mixed screening, had U.S. guidance, and was equipped with the most advanced weapons, only held out for half a day.
Half a day!
In half a day, the entire line collapsed!
That group of demonic monsters was like a red-hot blade, fiercely piercing into the heart of the island!
And they were that piece of sweet, defenseless, soft cheese.
Luckily we didn't stay... the guard thought.
The commander probably knew the consequences of staying too, but he just couldn't accept his act of desertion as a Soldier, much less accept that he fled because of fear... but isn't that normal? Staying alive is what's most important.
Who would want to fight those guys?
Let the Americans go; they claim to be number one in the World. It would be quite interesting to see them get their faces bruised this time.
Looking left and right, ears pricked—it seemed there was no more big commotion inside. Usually, the commander would sleep for a while at this time. When the thunderous snoring started, he could quietly leave the door, find a brother for a smoke, buy a couple of bottles of wine, and if... if you're quick enough, you could even find a local streetwalker for a quick "battle" in this short time. So being a guard was a lucrative post; not only could you often receive bribes from merchants inquiring about the commander's whereabouts, but you could also take time off to rest or... "battle."
Just as he was thinking, the snoring had already begun to rise.
The guard also yawned, quietly picked up his gun, leaned against the wall and shuffled along, disappearing outside the main gate in no time... A minute later, in a small hut in the camp, Soldiers who had deserted their posts arrived in twos and threes.
The guard was considered their leader, a position that had constant contact with the commander. No one wanted to cross him—a few slanderous words could cause extremely troublesome consequences.
"I found a new girl." Several men gathered in a circle, playing poker on a wooden table with banknotes scattered on the floor. In another corner of the room, more guys chose to drink.
Further in, if you listened closely, you could even hear some shouting.
Friendly, enthusiastic.
"Local goods again?"
The guard was no longer his usual disciplined and solemn self. To mix with this crowd, one had to act like them; otherwise, if you stood out too much, you could forget about leading this group of unruly guys.
"Definitely! Who wouldn't like it!"
A burst of laughter.
They were talking about those streetwalkers who sold themselves—actually, in their language, there were many words to describe such people, but the Soldiers chose the most disgusting and insulting one. It must be said that this also showed their disregard and contempt for the locals.
Even though they themselves were a fleeing army.
"Want to give it a try?! I bet you've never seen such a beautiful person." A short man with a crooked military cap complimented the guard quite obviously. He pressed one hand on the poker cards, spat at a couple of guys trying to peek at his hand, and turned his face with a wide smile.
"Do you have the confidence to conquer a cold-faced bitch?" The Soldier teased, as if he didn't believe it. "It's no fun if a match ends too early. Some people can even take down two strong men on the training ground—"
The guard cursed with a laugh, tugging at his collar with some excitement.
"Who do you think I am? By the time you guys win Cairo, I won't even be done with overtime!"
Then came another round of swearing and joking.
"Go on, go on." The short man with the poker cards nudged the guard with his shoulder. "I spent a lot of money to buy her. Even so, that bitch keeps a cold face, and her black eyes are freezing when she looks at me."
"To be honest, I'm actually a bit scared."
The guard patted the gun at his waist dismissively, the metal clinking crisp and powerful. "That's because you didn't show her this thing!"
"What coldness and pride? As long as there's... she'll—"
The vulgar words made the Soldiers drinking on the other side join in the cheering.
Standing up, the guard straightened his military uniform and strode into the small door of the large house in his black leather boots.
That was a hidden secret door, specifically providing 'convenience' for these guys, housing streetwalkers for their enjoyment.
Pushing open the door, the room was not large, but it held an exceptionally large bed. A woman sat on the bed, her expression cold and distant. Her long, slender legs were pressed together, and her hands rested properly on her knees.
—As the door opened, her eyes, lined with eyeliner, looked over at the sound.
Cold, indifferent, and as calm as a pool of stagnant water.
The guard licked his lips: the more she was like this, the more he felt a desire to tear her apart.
Ha.
The woman tilted her head. Her pale purple lips gave off a strange, eerie feeling. The guard had never seen a woman wear such a lip color—most wore bright red, which, if accidentally smeared on trousers, left uneven traces that always emitted a low-quality chemical scent.
Not to mention those who smeared on large patches of gold. What was wrong with the heads of these locals? Could they not distinguish beauty from ugliness?
But this time was different.
That shade of purple stirred the demon in the depths of the guard's heart.
The demon said: Go... go and see her.
Embrace her.
Tear her to pieces.
"What is your name?"
The guard put on what he thought was a gentlemanly smile: he had seen it on Mr. Muska and had practiced imitating it in private for a long time.
"I am the Commander's guard. Do you know what a Commander is?"
Hearing this, the woman's gaze toward him was extremely strange... as if she were looking at an ant.
Her steady voice was even colder than her chilling eyes.
"Hello, Mr. Guard."
"I am Nagini."
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