The Priest’s Wish

"Stray Dog, now that our mission is over, do you have any thoughts?" Not long after, Cartridge parked 1 on a strange street, and as he and Hou Rui began to walk side by side, he couldn't help but keep talking.

"Tired. Scared. Hurting," Hou Rui spat out, one word at a time.

"Hahaha, you'll get used to it. At this point, you should be grateful just to be alive." As Cartridge spoke, he casually helped himself to a robe hanging in the yard of a house by the road, slipped it on over his bloodied, wounded body in a few swift moves. Hou Rui quickly followed suit, grabbing another robe and putting it on. Now both were disguised, blending in as they walked down the street.

"How long will we have to keep doing missions like this?" Dawn was breaking. After a night of relentless combat, time had flown by. Hou Rui wasn't particularly close to the other members of the operation, but recalling each vivid face vanishing from his memory left him inexplicably sad, and he couldn't help but ask.

"New recruits have to serve in major missions for two years. Didn't your mentor tell you that?"

"I never had a mentor. There’s a lot I don’t know."

"Stray Dog, you're a strange one. But you learn fast. Maybe that means you’ll live a little longer." Cartridge suddenly crouched beside a car parked on the street, pulled out a set of small tools, and started picking the lock. A minute later, the two of them were driving down another street in the newly acquired car.

"Cartridge?"

"What is it?"

"What do you think I lack the most?" Hou Rui decided to seek advice from this short, knife-wielding expert.

"Too much to list—close combat, all sorts of little tricks, but above all, the most important thing."

"What is it?" Hou Rui pressed.

"Five thousand dollars." Cartridge flashed his trademark toothy grin, wearing that infuriatingly extortionate expression.

"Fine, fine, just tell me," Hou Rui replied irritably.

For once, Cartridge turned serious as he drove. He was still smiling, but the cold gleam in his eyes made Hou Rui shiver and instinctively inch away, wanting to keep some distance from this dangerous man.

"Stray Dog, your biggest problem is that you still harbor unrealistic illusions about this world. You hesitate when carrying out missions. You hold back when you kill. That will get you—and the people around you—killed sooner or later." With that, Cartridge turned his attention back to the road, leaving Hou Rui lost in thought.

Never hesitate with anyone? Kill whoever the mission says, no matter if they're a child or an old man—just wipe them all out? If I could do that, would I even be human anymore? I don’t want to become that cold-blooded. At the very least, collateral damage outside the mission should be kept to a minimum! Hou Rui disagreed with Cartridge’s view but didn’t dare show it, so he kept silent for the rest of the drive.

About two hours later, behind a small hill 120 kilometers southwest of Surt, Hou Rui and Cartridge finally met up with Elf and Mark. The two had also disguised themselves, with a small donkey in tow, making them look like the most ordinary country couple. But Hou Rui’s sharp eyes noticed Mark’s left arm was in a sling and Elf was limping, a testament to the intensity of that last battle.

"What’s the extraction plan?" Cartridge stuck his head out the car window and asked Elf.

"Cross the border on foot, same as we came," Elf replied.

"Lousy luck. I thought we’d get to fly back this time."

"Don’t bring up irrelevant things. The target is confirmed dead, right?"

"Beheading, explosion, and burning—if he’s not dead after all that, I’m out of ideas," Cartridge shrugged.

"Then let’s part ways here," Elf said, mounting the little donkey, and the rest scattered, each heading their own way.

About a day and a half later, Hou Rui was driving Cartridge’s abandoned car near the Libyan border. The aftermath of the fierce fight with Blackwater was catching up to him; several bullet wounds, though not fatal, had severely weakened him without proper rest. His body finally gave out and a low fever set in.

He touched his forehead again, feeling the searing heat—at least 38 degrees, he guessed. Weakly, he let his hand fall, sighing as he raised his canteen to his lips, only to find it was bone dry.

"Just my luck," he muttered, tossing the canteen onto the back seat. The motion pulled at the wound on his arm, breaking him out in a cold sweat. When the pain subsided, he lifted the bandage to check the now-blackened bullet wound.

"Hope it’s not infected," he thought with concern, rewrapping the bandage before reaching for a crude map.

He was still over ten kilometers from the border, but going any further by car would almost certainly get him spotted by the Libyan border troops—the kind who fed on smugglers and drug runners. In his current state, if he got stopped, there’d be no getting away.

As Hou Rui, feverish and dizzy, pondered exactly how to slip across the border, a minibus suddenly approached and screeched to a stop right next to his car.

A man in a sun hat leaned out and addressed Hou Rui in Arabic.

"Sorry, can you speak English?" Hou Rui replied, too exhausted to even be wary. The fever had sapped all the strength from his limbs, and he could only slump against the steering wheel as he spoke to the man in the sun hat.

"Do you need help, my friend?" The man immediately responded in flawless English, unmistakably a Westerner.

"I’m sick. Who are you?" Hou Rui was forced to seek help—at least a Westerner was preferable to the ambiguous loyalties of the locals.

"I’m Father Rick," the man said, stepping out of the minibus with a large water bottle in hand. Through his haze, Hou Rui managed to spot the priest’s distinctive white collar. Only then did he resist the urge to unleash the automatic rifle resting across his knees.

Father Rick first felt Hou Rui’s forehead, then handed him the water bottle, speaking with kind concern, "You have a fever. You need to lie down and rest immediately."

"But I need to cross the border, to get to—" Hou Rui gulped down the water, finally regaining some strength.

"How fortunate. We’re headed that way as well. Perhaps we can travel together," Father Rick suggested. Hou Rui hesitated. What if this mysterious priest was a drug dealer or something even more dangerous? Traveling together might be like walking into a lion’s den.

As Hou Rui wavered, the bus driver began honking, probably urging Father Rick to get back on board.

"My friend, you truly need the Lord’s help. There’s always a place for you in the church’s van, but you can’t bring that," Father Rick said, pointing at the rifle on Hou Rui’s lap. The priest’s usually gentle face turned uncharacteristically stern.

"Forget it, I—" Hou Rui started to refuse, but suddenly his head swam and he blacked out completely.

Who knows how long passed before Hou Rui was jolted awake by the shaking of the vehicle. He opened his eyes, surprised to find himself lying on the back row of the minibus, attended by several elderly Libyan women. The bus was now winding through a mountain valley, far from the desolate border wasteland.

"Father Rick?" Hou Rui called out after a moment’s thought. Immediately, the priest came over from the front and handed him a bottle of water. "You’re awake. We’ve already passed the border checkpoint."

"The soldiers didn’t trouble you?" Hou Rui asked curiously.

"The Saints Church often brings in medical supplies, sometimes other goods as well, so the checkpoint soldiers usually don’t bother me." Father Rick sat next to Hou Rui and checked the fresh bandage with practiced hands—clearly, he was no stranger to tending the wounded.

"Then I really am lucky," Hou Rui said, sipping water slowly and letting the priest examine his wound. When Father Rick finished, Hou Rui continued, "Respected Father, you helped me—how can I repay you?"

"Oh, no, no, I don’t need any reward. All of this is the Lord’s arrangement." Father Rick waved off the offer, then crossed himself. The elderly women promptly followed suit.

"But I do have a small wish—perhaps you can help me," Father Rick said suddenly, with a mischievous smile.

"Please, Father."

"I hope you can leave behind your dangerous ways. For all who live by the sword shall die by the sword." Father Rick’s words were heavy with meaning.

Hou Rui remained silent for a long time, unable to meet the priest’s expectant gaze. After a few minutes, the disappointed Father Rick could only shake his head, pat Hou Rui’s shoulder, and return to his seat at the front of the bus.