God of Blackfield

Watching the scene unfold, the noisy patrons in the bar suddenly fell silent. Even though Dayeru was the one who had followed the Asian man and stood before him, he was still the one fuming with anger.

If this had been on the street like earlier, Dayeru would have already shoved him while pointing at the women, but here, he was at a loss for words. He doubted he could even communicate with the man in front of him.

Dayeru stood in the center. All eyes were on him and the Asian man sitting at the table, who had looked away.

“Stand up,” Dayeru ordered in Arabic. He then rubbed his thumb, index, and middle fingers together, forming the universal gesture for money. “You need to pay up for what you did to those women outside.”

When the Asian man looked around, someone spoke to him in French. They seemed to have interpreted what Dayeru had said. In response, the Asian man smiled as if he found the situation amusing, filling Dayeru’s eyes with rage.

This fucking bastard! Fine! Let’s see how tough you are!

His mind started racing whenever he faced someone intimidating. That was why he always acted before he had time to think—just like now.

“Graaaagh!” Dayeru yelled as he charged aggressively.

Whoosh!

Thud! Thud!

‘Fucking bastard! You were armed?!’

As if stabbed with an awl, a sharp pain shot through his elbow and armpit.

His opponent then struck him in the neck and landed a heavy blow between his left ear and jaw, making him feel as if he had just been hit with a hammer.

Crash!

Dayeru sprawled on the floor, but he quickly shook his head.

Fucking coward! You sat there ignoring me just to pull out a fucking drill?

He touched his right armpit with his left hand. Contrary to his expectations, there wasn’t any blood.

Looking down at Dayeru, the Asian man started speaking in French. Dayeru couldn’t understand him, but he could tell it was perfect, fluent French.

Dayeru growled as he slowly stood up, rotating his right arm and cracking his neck from side to side. He then burst into laughter.

Now that even more rage had built up in his eyes, the Asian man should no longer appear as intimidating. However, he was quickly proven wrong. Unlike before, his opponent’s eyes now gleamed even more intensely.

In this battle, there was no room for words. Dayeru suddenly lunged, aiming for the man’s neck.

I’ll break it in one blow! I just have to withstand the punches and grab his head!

Wham! Thud! Crack!

He was quickly hit in the neck and solar plexus. His side now ached, and he felt as if his left ear and jaw had been shattered.

What the hell? What just happened?

Bam! Wham!

Struggling to breathe, Dayeru felt another hammer-like blow to his side.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Excruciating pain coursed through his left cheek and jaw. It was as if they were breaking apart.

Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!

Stars burst in the pitch-black world before his eyes. This was the first time he failed to see his opponent—and the first time he had been beaten so brutally before he could even land a punch.

As he bent forward, a sharp object pierced his neck.

Wham!

A jarring pain shot through his jaw and nose, forcing his head back.

Crash!

Groaning, Dayeru collapsed pitifully to the floor.

“Urgh! Gah!”

You bastard! You’ve already beaten me this badly! You might as well kill me!

Dayeru struggled to get up. He had suspected this would happen. After all, he did find the man seemed a little terrifying.

“Urgh! Huff! Huff!”

Breathing heavily, he shook his head and painstakingly pushed himself back to his feet.

The Asian man said something else in French, but no one responded. It seemed as if whatever he said was directed at Dayeru, and the others were too scared to interpret it.

“Tsk!”

Dayeru spat out the blood that had pooled in his mouth and turned back toward the Asian man.

Look at this guy…

It felt as if the Asian man’s slight head tilt was mocking him.

“I am Dayeru Abdul Karim Azar, head of the Excellemont Algerian Syndicate and the warrior who beheaded and castrated the six men who murdered my mother and sister! It’s about fucking time we end this!”

When the Asian man locked eyes with him, Dayeru broke into another charge.

Wham! Thud! Bam! Crack! Snap! Crack! Wham! Thud!

He couldn’t even tell where or how he was being hit. The pain in his jaw, neck, solar plexus, thigh, side, and armpit was so intense that his vision started to fade.

It was strange. As he thought that he was about to die, a bizarre sense of relief washed over him—he felt as if he was finally free.

He had to endure. If he fell, the Asian man would stop beating him. Born big and strong, he wouldn't die easily. He had to hang on no matter what.

“Graaah!” Dayeru gritted his teeth and leaned forward, determined to keep fighting.

He wouldn’t die that easily.

I told you! I’m not going to let some weakling with a knife take me down.

Wham! Thud! Bam! Crack! Crack! Wham!

He’d only accept death if he fought as hard as he could to the bitter end.

“Aaargh!” Dayeru let out a guttural cry as he pushed through the excruciating pain and leaned forward.

Crack! Snap!

Crack!

A sharp impact shot through his jaw, making even more stars explode in his vision as he slowly fell backward.

Crash!

When he hit the floor, he no longer felt pain—he didn’t feel anything at all.

“Phuhuhu.”

This bastard is strong. There’s no doubt about it.

That day, Dayeru Abdul Karim Azar finally met his match. Still, he knew he had to get up.

He had never been beaten like this before, but he knew that he’d recover from this in just a few days. He couldn’t just lie down and give up.

He had to either kill the sneering bastard and turn today’s fight into a legend or die by his hands.

“Gaagh.”

With trembling arms, Dayeru forcibly pushed his upper body up.

Just wait a bit. I’ll be there soon.If those six bastards I killed are there too, let them know I’m coming.

The moment he got back to his feet, he screamed like a madman. “Aaaargh!”

He then started to laugh. Honestly, he was afraid of charging at him again. He felt as if he did, he would really die this time, which he had been half-hoping for.

Who the hell is this guy anyway?

As Dayeru slowly turned, the Asian man’s lips curved into the same irritating, unsettling smirk.

You dare mock me even though I’ve mustered up this much courage?

“Gaaaargh!” he shouted as he lunged forward.

Whoosh! Thud!

However, he took a solid hit to his neck. He bent forward just as the Asian man grabbed the back of his shirt, causing the fabric to tighten around his throat.

“Gah!”

If you don’t have the resolve to eliminate me properly, then I’m going to fucking kill you! Showing mercy will only get you killed.

As Dayeru gritted his teeth, staring at the Asian man’s knee, he felt another excruciating blow to the back of his neck.

Thud!

“Guh!”

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

Hey! You bastard!If you keep me hitting like that, then I can’t even die!

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Graaggh!”

I don’t know how your fists can drive into my bones like this, but if you want me dead, you have to aim better!

Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud!

“Aaargh!”

It was a brutal beating. Intense pain kept surging from his neck, and he seemed to have broken bones all over. Nevertheless, he remained conscious.

His vision turned pitch-black, and for a brief moment, he saw his mother in a hijab, cradling him.

He choked back his sobs.

Finally, as if by a miracle, the beating stopped.

Thud!

The Asian man released him, and he fell to the ground.

Flop!

“Phuhu. Huhuhu. Phuhahaha. Haaa….”

Dayeru tried to laugh, but the tears kept coming. All he could do now was weep like a wounded bull.

This isn’t the life I wanted.

“Aaaaaaah!”

I just wanted to be a merchant, grilling lamb in those two pans I had. Now, you’re telling me I can’t even die the way I want to?! You fucking worthless scum! You evil Asian bastard!

When Dayeru raised his head to look at the Asian man, he saw him still standing there, quietly watching him. The man briefly said something in French, and someone nearby responded with a reply that included Dayeru’s name.

“Huff!”

Dayeru wiped his tears with the back of his hand and spat out a mix of blood and saliva.

Finally, the Asian man spoke for the first time.

“Dayeru,” he called.

As Dayeru raised his head, Kang Chan let out a quiet sigh. This hulking figure, filled with rage, strength, and persistence, was now crying like a child. The beating he had just taken would have knocked anyone else out cold, yet here he was, still conscious.

You wanted to die, didn’t you? You charged in with the hope of releasing all that pent-up anger—hope that death would bring you some relief.

You stupid fucking bastard! You’re a brute built like a bear! You probably don’t even have a passport, and I bet you’ve killed people and have plenty of other crimes to your name.

‘Damn it! What kind of medal am I going to earn from this mess?’

The thought of Sharlan blowing up in anger made Kang Chan shake his head. He then turned to the Arab man who had been serving as his interpreter.

“Ask him if he can follow me right now. Tell him that where we’re going, most failed to survive for even just forty-eight hours.”

The Arab man’s eyes widened in shock, but he quickly recovered and relayed his message as if he had suddenly come to his senses.

“Tell him that even if he manages to survive for forty-eight hours, he’ll likely be dead within seventy-two,” Kang Chan added.

As his interpreter continued relaying everything in Arabic, Kang Chan looked back down at Dayeru.

He couldn’t help but laugh in disbelief. The Algerian’s tear-covered and blood-streaked face now had a glimmer of hope.

You filthy bastard.

“Get up,” Kang Chan ordered.

Dayeru gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand.

“Do you need to pack anything?”

Dayeru shook his head exactly once.

How great would it have been if this man were Korean? We could have laughed and drank instant coffee together.

“Let me remind you: you’re walking into a place where you’ll likely be dead within forty-eight hours,” Kang Chan said.

Before Kang Chan could continue, Dayeru interjected. He slurred as he spoke, making him sound like a drunkard.

“Niranjaba[1].”

“He said, ‘Let’s go. I want to go now.’”

Smirking, Kang Chan turned around and placed money on the table to pay for his beer.

“Come,” he then ordered as he walked toward the door.

The patrons quickly moved aside as Dayeru Abdul Karim Azar, the head of the Excellemont Algerian Syndicate, staggered out of the bar, following the God of Blackfield.

***

As the head of the DGSE’s Central African branch, Miguel thought Sharlan and Kang Chan were forces that couldn’t be ignored.

Orders typically came through the French military, but things were different in this part of Africa. For France and the rest of Europe, Africa was like a cog in the economic machine. The success or failure of operations executed here had a direct impact on France, which was why the God of Blackfield had such a great influence.

Miguel frowned deeply as he held the phone.

“Sharlan, the man killed six villagers and fled. He doesn’t even have a passport. Other than being alive, he doesn’t meet any of the Foreign Legion’s requirements. How on earth are we supposed to enlist this Algerian?”

- Channy said he’s willing to return his medals.

“Does he think medals are some kind of bargaining chip? That damn commanding officer has already returned three! Even so, there’s really nothing I can do for this Algerian.”

- Understood, sir. I’ll relay the message.

“Wait. Where is the God of Blackfield right now?” Miguel asked.

- He’s at the training camp. If he refuses…

Miguel quickly glanced at the schedule. They had to deal with a tribal rebel group in Congo by the end of the month.

“Sharlan, you know the selection criteria for the Foreign Legion have changed. You need a passport now, and your identity has to be verified.”

- Channy is hoping that the DGSE will handle it.

Miguel grimaced as he suppressed a groan. The God of Blackfield had already been on active duty for over three years. Moreover, as the commander of the Foreign Legion’s 13th Special Forces Regiment, he had the right to refuse up to nine more operations.

Which would be easier—dealing with the Congolese tribal rebels without him or fabricating an identity for the stupid Algerian?

Miguel clenched his fist. Trembling, he said, “Fine. I’ll contact the training camp. Order the God of Blackfield to return.”

- Yes, sir.

After hanging up, Miguel stared at his schedule as he tried to contain his anger. This was a minor issue, considering the tremendous success that the DGSE had achieved across Africa was all thanks to the God of Blackfield’s remarkable efforts.

“Hah.”

Miguel sighed. He had to ensure that no more medals were returned.

1. The Arabic phrase “niranjaba” translates to “Let's go” in English. ☜