On the other side of the world.
In a Middle Eastern country, inside a U.S. forward operating base disguised as a logistics transfer hub. Dust hung thick in the air, carrying the oppressive stench of diesel, gunpowder, and cheap cigarettes.
XE Company—an internationally notorious private military contractor, famous for its efficiency, ruthlessness, and unusually close ties to the Pentagon.
Its regional director, Leica, was idly dealing with a mountain of routine paperwork.
He had just approved a contract to provide armed security for an oil giant's exploration team, then turned down a request from a warlord in a small African country who wanted to buy secondhand armored vehicles.
At that moment, his assistant knocked and entered, handing him a visitor request.
"Boss, you have an appointment this afternoon. The client is from Japan and wants to discuss a deal with you in person."
"From Japan?"
Leica raised an eyebrow, looking mildly annoyed. "Another rich businessman here to 'talk business'? Have him wait in the reception room. I'll go once I finish what I'm doing."
In his mind, clients from peaceful countries in the East usually just wanted to hire a few retired soldiers as bodyguards—to look impressive at yacht parties. Small deals, big headaches.
At three in the afternoon, Leica finished his work and headed to the reception room.
But the sight before him made him pause.
Sitting inside weren't the suit-wearing, obsequious businessmen he'd expected, but three powerfully built Western men radiating a dangerous presence.
At the front was a blond man with blue eyes, around forty years old. His gaze was sharp as a hawk's, his posture straight as a pine tree. Even in casual clothes, the soldier's bearing etched into his bones was impossible to hide.
Behind him stood two companions—one built like a bear, the other lean like a panther—arms crossed, silent, like statues that could explode into violence at any moment.
Leica's initial indifference faded.
He casually scanned the three of them, then put on a friendly smile.
"I'm Leica. I hear you have some business you'd like to discuss?"
The blond man was Jason, the former Navy SEAL commander codenamed "Messenger," sent by Parker as the operation lead.
He didn't waste words.
"We're acting on behalf of a client. We want to hire XE Company as our guide and intermediary in the West Illyria region."
"West Illyria?"
Leica frowned. "That's not exactly a tourist destination. What are you planning to do?"
"Recover all wreckage from Flight NH915 that crashed two months ago," Jason replied calmly, "along with the remains of all the victims."
Leica froze.
"You're… serious?"
He stared at Jason in disbelief. "You want to recover that pile of scrap metal and bones? Do you have any idea whose territory that mountain range is now? Abdullah and his pack of mad dogs, plus two other factions circling like vultures. Even the government forces won't step in lightly. Going there—are you trying to get yourselves killed?"
Jason didn't answer. He simply pulled a thick folder from his tactical backpack and slid it across the table.
"Our preliminary operation plan."
Leica picked it up, puzzled.
The first page was a high-resolution satellite map, with multiple infiltration and extraction routes clearly marked in red and blue. After that came detailed timelines, logistics plans, risk assessments… even personality analyses and firepower layouts of the three local faction leaders.
Leica's eyebrows rose higher and higher.
He set the file down and looked at the three men seriously.
"It seems you're not joking," he said in a low voice. "But my people aren't cheap cannon fodder."
"Let's talk price."
Leica leaned back in his wide chair and lit a cigar.
"A mission at this level carries extreme risk. Flat price—one million dollars. And I need to warn you: the three armed factions in West Illyria are no joke. They have RPGs, mortars, even a few ancient T-54 tanks. If things turn into a firefight, my men will do their best to cover you, but I can't guarantee you'll all make it out."
He paused, then continued.
"More importantly, your people… civilians without battlefield training tend to lose control the moment they hear gunfire. They become a liability. When that happens, whether you live or die is up to God."
Jason calmly cut him off.
"We understand the region. Based on our assessment, the main threats during infiltration will include: IEDs roughly every five kilometers, snipers entrenched on high ground, RPG ambushes launched from mountain passes at any moment, and highly unpredictable mobile patrols—pickup trucks mounted with heavy machine guns—operated by the three factions."
The smile on Leica's face stiffened.
This intelligence closely matched XE Company's internal assessment.
Jason continued, his tone emotionless.
"That's why we recommend a standard QRF configuration. Two six-man teams advancing with leapfrog tactics, alternating cover. At the same time, we must ensure at least one armed helicopter or attack aircraft is available to provide full-time CAS."
"Our personnel are all retired from frontline special forces units. They have extensive combat experience and can fully cooperate with XE Company's operational command. We won't be a burden to anyone."
QRF… leapfrog… CAS…
Those smoke-and-blood-soaked military terms came effortlessly from Jason's mouth.
Leica could no longer sit still.
He straightened abruptly and stared hard at Jason. The greed and contempt were gone from his face, replaced by wariness and the instinctive caution of one predator facing another.
"Who exactly are you people?"
"What unit did you retire from—or what company do you really work for?"
Jason didn't answer directly. Instead, he took out a military-grade encrypted tablet, brought up a screen, and slid it toward Leica.
A Swiss offshore bank account.
The balance displayed was a staggering number.
"Five million dollars as an advance," Jason said evenly. "We can transfer it to any account you specify, right now. Is that sincere enough?"
Leica swallowed.
The numbers on the screen were more convincing than any military résumé.
The muscles in his face twitched before he forced out a smile full of "cooperative sincerity."
"All right, my friend."
He stood and poured Jason a glass of whiskey himself. "Now I'm one hundred percent convinced you're serious. Let's talk operational details."
Leica had already decided to take the job.
"My friend, you're clearly professionals, and the money is good. But I still have to say—this isn't best solved by brute force."
He deliberately painted the situation as extremely complicated.
"Abdullah may be greedy, but he's also paranoid. If we make too much noise going in, we could provoke him into doing something irrational."
"Mr. Leica."
Jason interrupted him again. This time, his gaze was sharp as a blade.
"Our boss wants this resolved in the fastest and most efficient way possible."
He leaned forward slightly and spoke in a voice only the two of them could hear.
"We know XE Company has close ties with the Pentagon's arms procurement division. And we know the U.S. Seventh Fleet's Ronald Reagan carrier strike group is currently on standby in the Persian Gulf."
Leica's pupils shrank.
That was high-level internal information.
Jason continued calmly, as if he hadn't noticed the shock.
"From what I understand, several F-16s deployed in this area are carrying precision-guided munitions that are close to expiration. Instead of shipping them back for disposal and paying a fortune in handling fees, the Air Force would be more than happy to run a 'live-fire exercise'—clearing inventory, boosting budgets, and making a little extra on the side. Isn't that right?"
He raised his head and met Leica's eyes directly.
"Outside the bounds of order, everyone plays by the same rules, don't they, Mr. Leica?"
Leica was completely stunned.
These people didn't just understand the regional military situation—they had intimate knowledge of U.S. internal operations, stockpiles, and even decision-making logic at the top.
This wasn't intelligence an ordinary group could obtain.
Leica stared into Jason's calm blue eyes in silence.
"All right…"
He took a deep breath and forced the words out through clenched teeth.
"Three million dollars. That includes air support and transport of the wreckage and remains. That's my lowest price."
"Deal," Jason said with a smile.
It really was an exceptionally favorable price.
Once the negotiation ended, the entire base snapped into motion.
Jason's team linked up with XE Company's elite operators, beginning equipment prep and final tactical rehearsals.
Half an hour later, a gray C-130 Hercules transport aircraft roared down the runway and lifted into the sky, disappearing into the dusky haze.
Inside the cabin, fully armed soldiers conducted final weapon checks in a grim, tense atmosphere.
Hundreds of kilometers away on the ground, a convoy of mine-resistant ambush-protected vehicles and armed pickup trucks silently rolled out from another hidden base, like ghosts in the night, racing toward that forgotten land of chaos.
Seated in the shaking aircraft, Jason used encrypted satellite communications to send the first progress report to Seiji Fujiwara in Tokyo.
"'Messenger' calling 'Boss.' The 'package' is en route. ETA to outer perimeter of the target area: twelve hours. Over."
…
Meanwhile, deep in the mountains of West Illyria.
In Abdullah's camp, bonfires burned brightly.
He and the leaders of the other two factions sat together, drinking smuggled whiskey and tearing into whole roasted lambs, their faces filled with greed and arrogance.
"One hundred million dollars! Hahaha!"
Abdullah raised his glass and shouted. "With that money, we can buy the latest surface-to-air missiles! Even American drones won't dare fly over our heads then!"
"That's right! We'll be the true kings here!" another leader echoed.
They had jointly issued a statement demanding one hundred million dollars in "humanitarian fees" from the Japanese government in exchange for returning the plane wreckage.
To them, the money was already in the bag.
Their men—armed militants carrying AK-47s—excitedly discussed what weapons they'd buy or how many pretty wives they'd take from neighboring countries once the money arrived.
But what came instead wasn't a bank transfer notification.
The next day, the Japanese government released a short, hard statement through international media:
"The Japanese government will not engage in negotiations of any kind with terrorists."
The UN's routine calls and the official silence of Europe and the U.S. felt like mockery.
Abdullah watched the news on satellite TV and smashed his glass onto the ground in rage.
"Damn them! Those damn Japanese!"
His face twisted as he roared. "Do they think we're joking?! They dare call us terrorists?!"
The three faction leaders convened an emergency meeting, all of them furious.
"No money? Fine! Then don't blame us!"
"Burn it! Burn all that scrap metal and those skeletons! Let's see how stubborn they stay!"
Abdullah's lieutenant—who'd had a bit of schooling—offered a more vicious idea.
"Boss, we shouldn't burn it outright. We should threaten to burn it, film the process, and send it to every media outlet in the world."
"Good idea!"
Abdullah slapped his thigh.
Soon, a group of armed men carrying cameras rushed to the valley where the wreckage was stored.
They placed gasoline drums beside the debris, waved their AK-47s at the camera, and shouted their threats in the most arrogant language imaginable—warning the Japanese government that if they didn't see the money within seventy-two hours, everything would go up in flames.
They even obtained photos of victims' families anxiously waiting through bribed channels and posted them on social media with the caption: "People abandoned by their own country."
The stunt quickly drew international media attention. Headlines appeared one after another: "Humanitarian Crisis," "Government Indifference," "The Final 72 Hours."
Seeing his "masterpiece" dominating major news sites, Abdullah sneered at the other leaders.
"I refuse to believe they can withstand public opinion from the Western world!"
Japan, Tokyo.
Late at night, only a dim desk lamp lit the Toyokawa Family study.
Toyokawa Sadaharu sat alone, watching evening news coverage of the situation in Area A on a massive screen.
On-screen, militants waved AK-47s and shouted threats at the Japanese government.
He shook his head slightly, lifted his teacup, and took a quiet sip.
As a top-tier businessman who had survived decades in the blood-soaked jungle of capital, every fiber of Toyokawa Sadaharu's being ran on the cold logic of cost and return.
"Men are realistic in the end. That kid might be willing to spend money on women, but he's not an idiot who'd let emotions cloud his judgment. Looks like this will quietly fade away."
In the Wakaba household's living room, after-dinner chatter filled the air.
Mina Mori watched Abdullah's arrogant face on the news and sighed to her husband.
"These militants are getting more and more outrageous."
Wakaba Takafumi shook his head.
"Looks like Fujiwara-san won't do anything after all."
"Yes."
Mina Mori nodded in agreement. "Someone at his level—what kind of stunning women hasn't he seen? There's no need to take such a huge risk for a girl who hasn't even graduated yet, someone named Megumi Kato."
Veterans of the entertainment industry's world of power and corruption, the couple shared the same conclusion.
"When powerful men dote on a woman, they can spend fortunes—mansions, jewelry, anything," Wakaba Takafumi sighed. "But that's only when their core interests aren't touched. When it comes time to choose, women are always the first to be sacrificed."
On the other side.
Deep in the mountains of West Illyria.
The night was pitch-black. Mountain winds howled, making the campfires roar and casting twisted, frenzied faces in flickering light.
This was the heart of Abdullah's armed forces—the "kingdom" he'd crowned himself ruler of.
The final moments of the "seventy-two hours" were approaching at dawn.
The entire camp was steeped in the revelry of imminent victory.
=-=-=-=-=-=-=
You can read up to chapter 190 on patreon.com/NiaXD.