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Chapter 65: Battlefield Reporter

 

I’m Chalk, a battlefield reporter.

My job was to bring the latest and most truthful war updates to the citizens.

Wars were inevitably bloody and cruel, making my job dangerous and difficult.

Battlefield reporters were rare in this country since no normal human being would choose to enter in one of the most dangerous fields of work.

I, however, took great pleasure in my work as I’ve always wanted to be a soldier.

It was too bad that my background dictated that I’m unable to serve for any country.

Twenty years ago, Golden Sun and Black Eagle were allies.

Golden Sun was a magnificent empire whereas Black Eagle was still a developing one.

My mother was a nomadic herdsman living on the boundaries of Black Eagle while my father was a businessman traveling along the Silk Road.

The Black Eagle Empire, as its name suggests, was a nation known for rearing black eagles because only its land was suitable for raising large-build black eagles.

These black eagles have quality feathers, the best material for quill pens.

My father was in this very line of business.

He would pay exorbitant prices for the black feathers and transport them back to Golden Sun Empire.

The feathers would be processed and refined in Golden Sun. The factory would cut open the feathers’ tube, remove the liquid in it, and sharpen it with a carving knife.

They would then drill a fillister in the center of the tip to prevent ink from flowing out when not in use.

A notch will be carved to allow the ink to flow smoothly from the top to the pen tip.

The tube will be filled with high-quality ink that could be used after cutting open the notch.

These superior quill pens were then sold to every corner of the empire.

Even in this technologically advanced age, having possession of such pens was a symbol of luxury and elegance.

It was also through this trade that my father became acquainted with my mother. He introduced her to this concrete society.

They gave birth to me but I was never interested in the feather business.

Father felt proudest of his achievements when he could lend his quill pen to people who needed one.

Nothing great lasts forever, of course.

The business was halted due to war between both empires.

The conflict arose from unevenly developed exchange-traded treasury bonds. Black Eagle was quickly gaining strength but Golden Sun was trying to suppress its progress.

After proposing 63 unfair agreements, Golden Sun Empire obliterated all kind feelings between both nations.

The war started and both nations cut off all connections.

The Silk Road became a dead road covered with corpses.

Because of her marriage to my father, Mother had no choice but to remain in Golden Sun.

She could only observe Black Eagle from afar and mourn the fact that she could possibly never see her family again.

I was still young during the second year of the war.

Father was thrown into jail for marrying an enemy.

The black feathers in the storehouse were all plundered and Father was even given the death penalty due to the large volume.

The quill pens which were once a representation of affluence became a symbol of betrayal.

Upon Father’s death, practically none of his relatives approved of Mother because she belonged to Black Eagle Empire.

She could only suffer in silence as she raised me. She knew nothing else apart from household chores.

Most of the time, she was employed as a housekeeper and would fashion pens made from doves’ feathers.

The art of making pens was the only thing Father had imparted to her before he left.

While other kids had new toys to play with and new clothes to wear, I grew up playing with the pens and sleeping on the feather pillows Mother made.

I eventually developed a fear of that feathery smell.

I was, fortunately, good in my studies. Perhaps it had something to do with the quill pens since Mom often reminded me that they represented Father.

I had no interest in writing and drawing, however. I was determined to be a soldier, only to realize later on that the army wouldn’t accept me because of my identity.

As such, I graduated from university and became a reporter.

When I first came to know about this unique profession, I jumped into it without any second thoughts.

It was a danger-filled career so I was easily accepted without being put through thorough checks.

I was a team with my photographer.

Mother disapproved of my job, but nevertheless, she would get my suitcase ready whenever I had a mission.

“If you meet the herdsmen, find the mojito tribesmen and tell them that Butterfly misses them.”

However, according to my knowledge, the nomadic herdsmen had moved into the village since the war started.

It was going to be difficult to locate them but I had never disregarded her words.

Of course, being a battlefield reporter wasn’t as dangerous as it seems.

Reporters should be fine if they just stay low and wait the war out.

If one party claims victory over the other, or when the reporters have been held captive by either party, they would be released upon producing the necessary documents since their job was well-respected by people.

On the Black Eagle side lies a vast grassland, once a paradise for the nomadic herdsmen.

The keyword was ‘once’.

Just yesterday, in the vehicle carrying army supplies en route to Golden Sun Empire, I already had the newest report and headlines ready for publishing.

When the vehicle stopped by a small encampment to rest, I heard some soldiers talking about a homicidal maniac running about in the village.

Their conversations piqued my interest, but the photographer did not dare to accompany me in.

He said he was tired and that lunatics produced by war were more frightening than soldiers.

My objective wasn’t just to photograph the events but rather to fulfill Mother’s wishes.

To see if there were any mojito tribesmen inside and to convey her longings.

I dropped my bag and informed the photographer that I would return in an hour.

Carrying his camera with me, I entered alone.

There were beautiful landscapes along the way but I was not in the mood to appreciate them.

It was a hamlet, where houses were made from wooden planks and other makeshift materials.

When I reached the village, it was totally empty. I figured that the villagers were hiding from the maniac.

During the war, there simply was no time for the soldiers to protect the villagers from such maniacs.

The chaos caused by these maniacs became negligible in face of real war.

As I was about to leave in disappointment, I noticed two shadows in a corner.

One stood on the spot, panicking, while the other held onto a dagger with a face full of malevolence.

He must be the maniac, I guessed.

The panicking victim was stumbling and falling clumsily to the ground.

Just as the killer was about to attack, he spotted me. He immediately turned away and fled.

I quickly made the chase, trying to capture whatever footage I could with the shaking camera.

While my first reaction should’ve been to save the victim, it would be more effective to restrain the killer.

I thought about how I would be able to run much faster without the camera.

I decided to drop it as I turned a corner and it, indeed, increased my chasing speed.

When I held the killer down with my body, he struggled non-stop beneath me.

I snatched his dagger and stabbed him.

I walked over to the camera and was about to save the clip when a bunch of villagers rushed over.

I waved my hands over and tried to explain the situation to them, but they threw me onto the ground and pressed me against it.

Flustered, I tried to clear the misunderstanding, thinking ahead about how I would become the village hero and how I would call for the mojito tribesmen.

But before I could finish, I was dragged, along with the victim, and thrown into the local jail.

I was accused of being an accomplice and the evidence was the camera in my hands.

It turned out that the camera had managed to capture the corpses hidden within bushes and corners.

All I could think of were Mother’s wishes.

And that victim, or so I had thought, was the real maniac and that his dagger had been taken away by the real victim before he could attack.

That maniac wasn’t in his right mind, so seeing that I’ve killed the last man for him made him believe that I was on his side.

He then told the police about it confidently, and as in his statement, I did kill a helpless villager.

While giving his statement, he kept calling me his partner, saying that he would see me again in the same cell.

My identity as a reporter and my side of the story wasn’t being taken seriously because I was from Golden Sun Empire.

Most importantly, my work pass was in my bag, which I had handed over to the cameraman before leaving.

Aside from the camera, there was nothing else, not even a pen or paper, to verify my identity.

Even my possession of the camera made them think that I was going to release the clip online to satisfy some sort of perverse desire.

As for the vehicle and the cameraman, they had decided that I was murdered, since I did not return by the promised hour, and quickly left for Golden Sun.

The camera had clearly captured the whole killing process and the clip was publicized on the national television in Black Eagle Empire.

At the same time, in Golden Sun Empire, televisions were broadcasting the battlefield reports that I had been hosting from the frontline.