God of Blackfield

Trigger warning: Mentions of rape and suicide

September 2001.

Just as dawn broke, Kang Chan went out of his army tent in Kilima, Democratic Republic of Congo. He then slowly warmed up.

His face was sunburnt, his body was now firm, and his eyes glinted. Those who’d seen Kang Chan for the first time wouldn’t be able to guess his actual age.

Kang Chan breathed out slowly as he followed the path that went around the perimeter of the barracks.

It had been more than three years since he took charge of the 11th unit of the Foreign Legion’s 13th Special Forces Regiment. The days since then didn’t feel particularly long, but they didn’t seem short either.

During that time, the nickname “God of Blackfield” became well-established not only in Congo and the Democratic Republic of Congo but all over South Africa.

That didn’t mean that Kang Chan just became famous. Still, he had encountered rebels who raised their hands and surrendered as soon as they heard he was in the area. Nearby natives also often ran over and clung to him, asking him to save them.

After a lap around the barracks, he slowly broke into a run. It had been approximately two years since he started this routine.

Suddenly missing South Korea, he began to crave pork cutlets, ramyeon, sundae[1], and tteokbokki like crazy. It had been so long since he last saw Korean writings that he was about to go insane.

Once he started to dislike Africa, the more he dealt with the rebels, the higher the cruelty hiding deep within him seemed to claw its way up and bind him.

“Huff huff! Huff huff!”

He had decided to start this routine out of frustration. He felt as if he was about to explode, and he needed a way to let it all out. Like magic, Kang Chan had since calmed down and became as stable as a river.

Having spent such a long time with the Foreign Legion, he could now speak French even in his sleep. He could also swear in many different ways, which he had never imagined doing.

Moreover, he learned to speak some of the regional dialects in Africa. He could even ask for food now regardless of where he was in Africa.

The rising sun shone down on Kang Chan.

“Huff huff! Huff huff!”

Kang Chan wanted to stop having to do this daily routine and just have relaxing mornings. Despite his wishes, though, he simply clenched his teeth and continued running with all his might. This was the only way he could ever feel refreshed and earn the right to smoke tasty cigarettes.

Upon returning to the front of his barracks, he planted his hands on his knees and gasped for breath.

“Haah. Haah.”

He had to let himself cool down like this for about five minutes. Otherwise, he’d just keep sweating even after a shower.

Finally catching his breath, Kang Chan walked to a wooden table that they had placed in front of the barracks. He then drank plenty of water and put a cigarette in his mouth.

Chk chk. Chkk.

Kang Chan exhaled the cigarette smoke. Only then did he completely calm down.

Sitting in front of the table, Kang Chan looked at the Kasai River[2]. He heard that crocodiles lived in it, but he hadn’t seen one yet.

While smoking, the smell of sweet coffee caught Kang Chan’s attention.

Clank. Clank.

He then heard a soldier approaching him.

“Captain,” a soldier called.

Kang Chan turned his head towards the soldier. From there, Smithen approached him, carrying two mugs.

“What is it?” Kang Chan asked.

“Coffee, sir.”

Does this fucker think I’m a fool that doesn’t even know coffee?

“It’s not the South Korean coffee that you bought sir; it’s coffee that I made with cream and sugar,” Smithen explained.

He then placed a mug in front of Kang Chan before sitting on the side of the table.

Kang Chan turned his head to the river again. He remembered feeling annoyed and dejected when the soldiers brought Smithen over, telling him that the bastard had just completed the special forces’ training.

“Captain, about your upcoming vacation…”

Kang Chan silently drank coffee.

What the fuck! How much sugar did this crazy bastard put in this?

Smithen continued, “I was wondering if we could go out somewhere nearby while you’re in France, sir.”

“Smithen.”

“Oui.”

“You know I can’t make that decision, right?”

“I do, sir, but if you propose it to the higher-ups, they’ll definitely approve.”

Kang Chan glanced at Smithen. The fucker was clearly restless; it seemed he was longing for a woman’s embrace again.

“Okay. Now, leave,” Kang Chan said.

“Captain!” Smithen shouted but quickly stopped himself when Kang Chan glanced back at him. “Please, Captain.”

Smithen quickly stood up. He then glanced around in desperation before turning around to leave.

Clank. Clank.

Kang Chan watched the man walk away before drinking the coffee again. The bastard caused problems with women whenever they took their eyes off him for even just a moment.

Kang Chan always managed to resolve the issues by beating Smithen up. At this rate, though, he’d probably end up physically breaking the idiot one day.

He smirked, then burst out laughing. He’d at least try a bit not to let that happen.

***

At around lunchtime, Dayeru woke up in bed with his thick arm under his head. He’d have to go out to the streets in a bit, so he quickly had lamb meat and rice.

At this point in his life, he desperately wanted only one thing: for someone to step in and kill him, be it with a gun or a knife.

Committing suicide was very cowardly, and if he offered his neck to the knife of a man who stood no chance against him, he would still be a laughing stock even after being buried six feet under.

He didn’t want to be difficult—he just wanted a really strong individual to finally come and end his misery in a battle he had given his all to.

Dayeru sighed.

That was why he was cruel to syndicate members who approached him while he was protecting the streets of Excellemont. He hoped that one of them would bring back a rough and strong man who could either shoot him in the head or slit his neck in one try.

However, he also had to be merciless for the sake of the old women of Excellemont. After all, if he weren’t around, they would be treated worse than animals.

Dayeru groaned and slowly stood up. His body felt heavy.

He could still remember his family’s death as if it had happened yesterday. That day, people hung his mother and older sister on a tree, set them on fire, and then claimed that their crime was walking in a way that seduced men.

Hamir Al Woofi, the leader of a small tribe, played a major role in their deaths. Dayeru also learned that Hamir and five other men raped his older sister the day she died.

Dayeru slit the throats of three of them and stabbed the other two in the heart. He then beheaded Hamir. Afterward, he cut off their dirty penises to make it clear why he killed them.

He hoped revenge would make him feel relieved, but it didn’t help at all.

Eventually, he came to the streets of Excellemont. Since then, he had gone off to work hoping to die.

A lot of people advised him to learn French, but he stopped not because he was stupid but because he felt it would make him want to live.

Dayeru put on comfortable cotton pants and a shabby shirt. He then left his room in the two-story house at the back of Excellemont.

Vroom.

When his colleague saw him, he quickly started the car. Looking as if he was swatting away a fly, Dayeru gestured at him to go first.

He had to take a walk on days like this. That way, the members of the rival organizations would recognize and shoot him or at least get the opportunity to attack him with a knife.

Two people greeted him as he trudged to his destination, pretending they were happy to see him. Unfortunately, no one attacked him.

Dayeru leaned on the car that his colleague from earlier had parked after arriving before him. He then bit on a cigarette.

Chk chk.

“Hoooo.”

He used his index finger to remove the meat stuck between his teeth before taking another drag off his cigarette.

Exhaling cigarette smoke again, he saw an Asian man approaching him from the other side of the street.

His build, the way he walked, and the look in his eyes made him look difficult to handle.

Huh?

Eyes glinting, Dayeru glared at the Asian. He seemed young, but Dayeru wasn’t sure. It had always been hard to guess how old Asians were.

Dayeru watched as the man headed straight to his destination. If he followed the road, he would eventually reach the Excellemont Hotel. Behind it were the bars that rough men usually visited.

Women approached the Asian, but he didn’t even glance at them.

Fucking kid! You’re a tourist, aren’t you? You should help women who live like this! You know what? I’m in a bad mood anyway, so might as well.

Dayeru threw his cigarette and walked toward the Asian man.

Most tourists took out their money if Dayeru threatened them in Arabic and rubbed his thumb, index, and middle fingers together. He pinned those who weren’t fazed to a wall and took out their wallets.

His job was easy, and he did this three or four times every day. For some strange reason, though, Dayeru’s heart pounded.

He swallowed dryly and took a deep breath. Afterward, he blocked the Asian man’s path.

The man looked at Dayeru. It was only for a brief moment, but Dayeru got goosebumps all over his body the moment he saw the man’s glinting eyes.

Amid their staredown, the man smirked offensively.

Should I kill him?

“Dayeru!” a colleague urgently called.

The women darted away from them, surprise evident in their gazes. Meanwhile, the Asian man had already turned and was walking away from Dayeru, acting as if he had just come across a crazy person.

Once Dayeru approached the car, the fellow member handed him a sharp jambiya[3].

For some strange reason, Dayeru turned more ferocious. As he frowned, his colleague took out a pistol and checked the magazine.

Eight people were approaching them.

“Phuhu.”

His eyes glinted as he waited for them, and the jambiya in his hand reflected the lights on the street.

One of the men stood across the car and took out a pistol, keeping its muzzle pointed to the ground.

“Dayeru,” another called.

“What?”

They spoke in Arabic.

Catching onto the mood, those who were walking down the street picked up the pace and lowered their heads.

“We respect you, so we came here to ask a favor,” the man answered. The intensity of Dayeru’s gaze made him glance around them before adding, “We want to put ten women in your care. In exchange for managing them, you’ll get a twenty percent cut. Good deal, no?”

“What if I refuse?”

The man scratched his forehead as if he found Dayeru bothersome. “They’re old; we can’t send them elsewhere. As the head of the Excellemont Algerian Syndicate, don’t you think you should give them a chance?”

“Hmm.”

Annoyed, Dayeru glanced away from the man. He saw the Asian man whom he had targeted a moment ago going down the basement of a building a block away from them. It was a bar that didn’t really require people to be formal. It also offered cheap whiskey, beer, and wine.

The Asian had gone to a bar, which meant he wouldn’t be leaving any time soon.

“I want seventy percent of earnings.”

“Hey, we’re trying to be polite here. We would rather dump them somewhere. You know we can’t give you that big of a cut,” the man replied. He then reached up toward his pocket but suddenly hesitated. “Don’t misunderstand. I’m just trying to have a smoke.”

True to his word, the man slowly took out a cigarette and a lighter from his pocket.

If it became difficult to take care of old women, these people would kill them and leave their bodies somewhere.

Chk chk.

The man lit up two cigarettes and offered one to Dayeru.

“Sixty percent,” Dayeru countered.

“Fifty.”

After pondering for a moment, Dayeru nodded and accepted the cigarette. He took a deep drag off of it.

Ten more old women would be roaming this street from now on. Some of his colleagues would definitely kick up a fuss, but he could just resolve that with his fists.

“Do your best for us,” the man said. He dropped his cigarette on the ground and walked away.

In response, Dayeru handed the jambiya back to his colleague.

“I’ll be at the front,” he said as he threw away his cigarette. He then headed to the bar that the Asian man had gone to.

The moment he feared a situation, he would always be afraid of it. The fear would make him give up on his goal, learn French, and eventually regain his desire to live.

He hoped someone would stop him from having those thoughts—that someone would allow him to rest even if it meant killing him.

Dayeru walked down the stairs. From beyond the thick cloud of cigarette smoke, he could hear people talking loudly and laughing. Once he opened the door and entered, the noise slightly died down, starting from the entrance.

Looking around, he found the Asian man sitting at a table with a beer in front of him and a cigarette in hand.

Dayeru approached him from behind.

In response, the Asian man turned around and smirked at him the same way as earlier.

It was terrifying.

1. Sundae is a blood sausage in Korean cuisine. ☜

2. a left-bank tributary of the Congo River, located in Central Africa ☜

3. A dagger of Yemen origin. It has a short, curved blade ☜