I was a prince in the Middle East

Chapter 20: I'm not some born strongman, I'm just born stubborn!

The night was as dark as ink, enveloping Bandar's private airport.

The runway, bustling during the day, is now silent, with only the terminal building and its affiliated clubhouse emitting a blinding white light, like a solitary lighthouse in the desert.

The airport was completely locked down, and a somber atmosphere permeated the dry air.

Deep inside the clubhouse, Mohammed bin Salman was writing furiously at his desk.

The lamplight cast his youthful yet already resolute profile onto the gleaming walnut wood table, where a mountain of documents almost completely obscured him.

"The chain of evidence must be closed, and witness testimonies must overlap, especially those involving the flow of funds and communication records..."

"Yes, immediately decrypt and archive the encrypted document handed over by the Crown Prince's office..."

“Tell them this is treason! There is no gray area; it must be made clear!”

He put down the phone, rubbed his temples, and his eyes were cold and sharp.

Bringing down a prince who wields real power, especially one convicted of serious crimes involving national security and collusion with foreign enemies, is tantamount to a political earthquake.

The slightest mistake could not only undo all previous efforts but also backfire.

Fortunately, the target had fallen, and with the fall of the tree, the monkeys scattered. The cooperation of the crown princes of the emirate was unexpectedly smooth.

A cold sneer curled at the corner of Muhammad's mouth.

In the Middle East, the laws of ancient tribes have never truly faded.

The liquidation and separation are aimed at ensuring the survival and balance of the core circle.

However, the trivialities of the aftermath, the sorting out of evidence, and the filling of the power vacuum consumed his energy every second.

At the other end of the clubhouse, the atmosphere was completely different.

The princes and nobles, who were under house arrest here, gathered idly in the luxurious rest area.

The daytime thrills have passed, and now the wait is long and agonizing.

The club had long been cleared out; the Eastern European model troupe that had once brought endless passion had vanished without a trace, leaving only well-trained, expressionless waiters serving the most basic drinks.

The card table became his only pastime.

Barut, Saudi Hand cards, West Gacha Omaha...

Various popular Saudi Arabian card and board games are being played in turn.

These games range from simple and easy-to-learn Western poker variations to traditional national card games that require fluency in Arabic to play.

At the card table, chips were piled high and cigarettes swirl around, but the atmosphere always had an eerie, absent-mindedness.

Walid bin Khalid sat at the card table, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the surface.

He had the most chips piled up in front of him, but this "victory" left him feeling utterly bored.

With each bet, with each showdown, these princes who usually looked down on everyone else had eyes filled with cautious probing and undisguised flattery.

They weren't playing cards; they were trying every trick in the book to win him money.

"Your Highness Walid, what do you think of this game?" the young prince next to him asked with a forced smile.

Walid glanced at his cards; they were unremarkable.

The other person stared at him nervously, as if awaiting a verdict.

This kind of insincere flattery, where one is praised to the skies, is more irritating than the midday sun in the desert.

So boring!

It would have been more interesting to argue and curse with those unfilial kids from my dorm in my past life.

Just a few rounds later, Walid pushed his cards aside and stood up.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm sorry, I'm feeling a bit dizzy. Please excuse me." His voice was not loud, carrying just the right amount of fatigue.

The card table fell silent instantly.

Everyone was taken aback at first, but then they all showed expressions of understanding, and voices of concern rose and fell:

"Ah, Your Highness Walid, please take good care of yourself!"

"Yes, yes, you've just recovered from a serious illness, you should rest more!"

"Go and rest, we're here for you!"

Walid nodded slightly and turned to leave amidst a sea of ​​concerned gazes.

His frail appearance, after seven years in a vegetative state and only three months of waking up, became the perfect excuse to leave.

At this moment, no one would question it.

At this moment, no one dared to question it.

Stepping out of the noisy card room, the cool night air invigorated him.

The suffocating feeling of flattery finally dissipated.

He walked toward the garage and instructed Angari, who was following behind him, "Get a buggy (desert off-road vehicle), I'm going out for some fresh air."

"Your Highness, we're safe..."

Little Angari's face turned green.

He really wanted to say, "Little ancestor, don't you have any idea why you've been lying in bed for seven years?"
"Don't worry, I promise I won't do anything reckless. You can also bring a few people to follow behind."

After a few seconds of silence, Angari bowed and agreed.

Well, we can't just prevent this little darling from ever driving again, can we?

A few minutes later, a wildly designed desert buggy with huge tires roared out of the garage and plunged into the boundless sea of ​​sand outside the airport.

The powerful engine propelled the vehicle, making it move effortlessly across the soft sand dunes.

Walid jerked the steering wheel, and the buggy roared almost vertically as it shot up the high sand dune, hovered briefly at the top, and then plunged down as if weightless!

The immense inertia pressed the person firmly onto the seat, while yellow sand flew up, covering the windshield, only to be roughly swept away by the wipers.

The roar of the engine, the rumble of the tires churning up the gravel, and the feeling of being pulled by G-forces all intertwine to create a primal and exciting symphony.

Yellow Hair was very happy.

However, he was still somewhat annoyed.

It's really weird. In my past life, when I was so poor I was eating dirt, I always felt that having money could solve all the troubles in the world.

Now look at me, I'm the richest of the rich, I have so much money I could fill the Red Ocean.

The result is still the same – still annoying!
He gave a wry smile, shook the water out of his head, and realized he was just being a fool.

Angari drove his Dodge Ram pickup truck at a distance that was neither too close nor too far, like a silent guardian, carving another track in the desert.

Walid drove his buggy like a desert sprite, freely traversing one sand dune after another.

The moonlight, like mercury spilling onto the ground, dyed the undulating sand dunes a hazy silvery white.

As he charged to the top of a large sand dune again, the beam of his headlights suddenly caught sight of a buggy parked quietly not far away, like a lurking beast.

A figure leaned against a huge tire, sitting on the sand, as if drinking.

Curious, Walid turned off the engine, jumped out of the car, and trudged over, his steps uneven.

Only when I got closer could I see clearly that it was Turki.

Turki, however, looked like a disheartened traveler. He glanced at him, then tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful.

The moonlight outlined the lines of his profile, carrying a clear sense of loneliness and... displeasure.

Yes, it's just annoyance, a kind of "don't mess with me" aura that's too lazy to hide.

Walid plopped down next to him, the coolness of the sand seeping through his thin robe.

Turki took another swig of wine, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed softly.

Seeing Turki's blatant disdain, Walid was amused.

He deliberately dragged out his words, with a hint of teasing: "Brother—"

The voice was exceptionally clear in the silent desert, “By God, you cannot drink alcohol. Especially since you are… a pilot?”

He pointed to the bottle of wine in Turki's hand.

Turki turned his head sharply, and in the moonlight, the irritation in his eyes was almost overflowing.

He didn't say anything, just snorted coldly and swung the bottle in his hand forcefully in front of Walid's eyes.

The label on the bottle was clearly visible in the moonlight: Lucky Saint.

"Look clearly!"

Turki's voice was hoarse and tinged with sarcasm, "Non-alcoholic beer, alcohol content <0.05% vol! Meets pilot standards! One bottle isn't even enough to rinse your mouth!"

Walid blinked, his gaze sweeping over Turki's feet.

A beer crate, with more than a dozen bottles of the same brand inside.

Without any hesitation, he reached into the box, grabbed a bottle, brought it to his lips, and smashed the cap against the edge with his front teeth!
"Click!"

With a crisp click, the metal bottle cap fell off.

Turki's eye twitched violently as he looked on, and he cursed.

"Are you crazy?! There's no bottle opener right here? Where's your princely elegance? Did a desert fox snatch it away?"

He simply couldn't understand how this guy, who had just been so powerful and cunning in front of everyone, could turn into such a... amateurish person in front of him.

Walid completely ignored his complaints and tilted his head back to gulp down half a bottle.

A cool, slightly bitter liquid with a hint of malt aroma washes over the throat.

He let out a loud, satisfying burp, then exhaled a breath that had a barely perceptible sweetness.

He turned to look at Turki, his eyes open and even a little roguish, "Why would I pretend in front of you, brother?"

Upon hearing this, Turki seemed to have been struck on a sore spot, letting out another heavy, cold snort, his voice suppressing the anger of being deceived.
"No need to pretend in front of me? Haha!"

His Highness Prince Walid bin Khalid, the new Lion King of Talal!

I feel like I'm the biggest idiot who got fooled by you!

He abruptly turned his head, his gaze piercing like a knife as he looked at Walid.
Three months! A full three months!

He acted like a clueless, naive kid who had just gotten out of bed in front of me!
And so? Who was that aggressive, manipulative guy in the VIP room today, in front of everyone?! Huh?!

A born strongman, right?

Turki's chest heaved violently, clearly the emotions that had been building up all day were about to erupt.

He felt like a complete joke, being manipulated by this "little brother".

Walid's smile faded.

He knew what Turki was referring to.

He remained silent for a few seconds, offering neither explanation nor defense.

He reached out and slowly lifted the hem of his white robe, revealing the outside of his thigh.

Under the moonlight, that patch of skin looked particularly dazzling.

Instead of a healthy skin tone, large patches of blue were visible. Even more shocking was the presence of several clear, deep crescent-shaped scabs of blood from the fingernails in the center of the bruises!
It was as if someone had used all their strength to pinch that piece of flesh hard, even digging it in!
Turki's anger and questions were instantly choked back.

He was stunned when he saw the scars.

Walid lowered the hem of his robe, covering the horrific mark.

He braced his hands behind his back on the cool sand, looked up at the bright, full moon in the sky, and sighed with utter weariness.
"I pinched it myself so as not to look weak."

This time, Walid wasn't lying.

He chuckled lightly, "What kind of born strongman? I'm just born stubborn!" Turki fell silent.

The air seemed to freeze, with only the faint whistling of the desert night wind sweeping across the dunes.

He looked at Walid's pale profile, his head held high in the moonlight, then looked down at the bottle of wine in his hand.

The anger and resentment I felt earlier deflated quickly, like a punctured balloon, and were replaced by a complex emotion.

Shock, understanding, even...

A subtle hint of admiration and heartache.

To be so cruel to oneself...

This kid is definitely a tough character!

Turki understood instantly.

The strong, cold, and seemingly in control Walid that appeared before everyone today was all an act!
That composure, that calmness, was earned at the cost of excruciating pain from the bloody, mangled flesh on his thigh!
Just like when he first underwent high-intensity ground training with large iron rings at flight school, simulating weightlessness and overload.

Back then, after coming down, he smiled and told the instructors and classmates, "It's nothing," "It's a piece of cake," looking completely nonchalant.

As soon as I got back to the dorm, I vomited so badly that I was practically rolling on the toilet, even bringing up bile.

The future Walid will surely become a ruthless man with an iron will and unparalleled power...

But at this moment, under the moonlit desert night, he was nothing more than someone who had just experienced immense pressure and needed to resort to self-harm to maintain his composure and courage…

Little boy.

Turki's lips curled into a complex smile.

It sounded like self-mockery, yet also like a sense of relief.

He picked up the bottle in his hand, reached out, and gently touched it to Walid's still-held bottle.

"when."

The crisp sound of glass colliding was exceptionally clear in the silence.

He tilted his head back and gulped down a large mouthful of the icy "drink".

The alcohol content was so low as to be negligible, but the surge of energy seemed to dispel some of the pent-up frustration in my chest.

He followed Walid's example, hugging his knees and gazing at the unchanging moon.

The cold moonlight shone on his young face, which was etched with worry.

After a long pause, he spoke in a low voice, his tone carrying a suppressed confusion and heaviness:

"I know... I know my emotions are not right."

He paused, as if organizing his thoughts, or perhaps struggling with his own emotions.
"Today...we won, right? We eliminated a huge threat to the country and even put my own brother in the spotlight..."

Theoretically, I should be happy, I should celebrate. But…

He turned his head sharply to look at Walid, his eyes filled with confusion and a hint of barely perceptible pain.
Why can't I feel happy at all?

"Walid, you're telling me that the three of us came together today, right?"

He emphasized "three people," staring intently at Walid, as if seeking confirmation, confirmation of his "presence."

Walid slowly withdrew his gaze from the moon and met Turki's complex gaze.

Moonlight danced on the tips of his golden hair.

He didn't shy away, but sighed deeply, his voice soft, yet it struck Turki's heart like a heavy hammer:

"He's a better fit than you."

Walid's voice carried an almost cruel honesty.

Turki's body visibly stiffened.

He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, to refute, to express the grievances and resentment in his heart.

Why him?
Just because he's two years older than me?
Just because he's better at putting on airs?

In what way am I inferior to him?
I fly fighter jets!

I've won awards!
Countless thoughts and a thousand frustrated words flashed through his mind in an instant.

However, Walid's blunt and piercing words acted like a solid dam, instantly silencing all the resentment that was about to erupt from him.

This sentence precisely struck the deepest corner of his heart, a corner he himself was unwilling to acknowledge.

After having his words carefully prepared, Turki felt a tightness in his chest.

Several seconds passed before he managed to squeeze out a dry, bitter laugh, filled with deep self-doubt and resignation.

"Ha...yes. He's more suitable than me."

He lowered his head, his fingers unconsciously picking at the label on the bottle.

"I actually... always knew. My brother... has always been much better than me since we were kids."

The sound grew fainter and fainter until it was almost drowned out by the wind.

Walid picked up his bottle and clinked it against the one in Turki's hand, making a crisp sound.

He didn't say anything more to comfort him.

At this moment, any words seem pale and powerless, and may even have the opposite effect.

The loss during a power transition... the subtle competition between siblings...

This kind of pain can only be healed by time.

The more you say, the more likely you are to add another scar to the other person's heart.

He stayed with Turki, silently drinking one sip after another.

The cool liquid slid down my throat, bringing a brief numbing sensation.

Turki also drank bottle after bottle, quickly and hurriedly.

Anyway, if you drink too much of this stuff, at most you'll feel bloated and uncomfortable, but it won't cause any serious problems. It's perfect for quenching the barrenness in your heart.

In the vast desert, only the sounds of two people swallowing heavily and the low murmur of the wind sweeping across the distant sand dunes could be heard.

After an unknown amount of time, Turki turned his head, his eyes gleaming with a strange light in the moonlight, a hint of provocation in them, and looked at Walid.
"You're saying... is there anything wrong with the 'hearthkeeper' inheritance law, which allows the youngest legitimate son to inherit the family business?"

Walid met his gaze and replied without hesitation, "That's right. I personally think so."

He shook his head and spoke calmly.

"The traditions of the tribe have their reasons."

Think about it, when your parents are old and frail and need care, your eldest son may be in his sixties or seventies, or even have many children and grandchildren and be too busy to take care of himself.

It's unrealistic to expect a young elderly person to meticulously care for their older parents.

Young children, being young and energetic, naturally lose the opportunity and time to go out and make a name for themselves if they stay by their parents' side to fulfill their filial duties.

Therefore, the family's wealth and pastures are passed on to the youngest son so that he can serve his parents with peace of mind and secure his old age, while the older sons go out to explore, conquer, and acquire new wealth and glory.

This is a balance, a wisdom gained from surviving in the desert for thousands of years.

It's fair and rational.

He had a deep understanding of this point when he studied the economic history of Saudi Arabia and the Middle East before he traveled through time; it was by no means a simple case of "favoring the youngest son".

Turki listened to Walid's well-organized, even somewhat academic, explanation and remained silent for a long time.

Under the moonlight, the lines of his profile appeared somewhat hard and cold.

He seemed to be chewing over Walid's words, or perhaps pondering something even more profound.

Finally, he spoke again, his voice low and deep, with a barely perceptible sharpness:

“But… Walid, what you’re ‘inheriting’ now isn’t the ranch, the camels, or the tents, it’s the throne, right?”

His gaze was fixed on Walid's reaction.

Walid nodded, his tone unchanged: "Yes."

Turki's cold smile widened, carrying an almost cruel mockery.

"Then, my dear younger brother, and my wise and mighty older brother..."

He paused, his gaze fixed on the blurry airport lights in the distance, and his voice suddenly rose.
"What makes you so certain—so certain that my father will outlive that old dog King Abdullah?!"

boom!
These words were like a bomb dropped into a calm sea of ​​sand!
Walid was stunned for a moment, his pupils suddenly contracting!
The hand holding the wine bottle froze in mid-air.

Damn!

How could I have overlooked this!
Alarm bells rang in Walid's mind.

He's a "yellow-haired" guy who traveled back from the future, so he naturally knows the course of history:

King Abdullah is 88 years old this year and has two more years to live before passing away at the age of 90.

Salman is "only" 77 years old this year, and he will live a very long life in the future.

But the problem is—now!
At this moment!

In 2013!
One is 88 years old, and the other is 77 years old. In this age group, can an eleven-year age difference really determine who will pass away first?

They are all very old people, and it is impossible to say who will live longer than them!

A cold, an accidental fall, or even a long, unending dream...

Anything can change in an instant.

Abdullah outlived his two younger brothers, the crown princes, before ascending to the throne; he was a man who could endure hardship!

As for Salman the Elder... before 2005, he wasn't even ranked near the top of the Sudri brothers' hierarchy!
In a way, he got his position as crown prince by taking advantage of Abdullah's overtaking of everyone before him and his own advanced age!

Turki felt a morbid pleasure as he watched Turki stare at him, speechless and dumbfounded.

He sneered again, his voice carrying a strange sense of smugness.

"What? Did I hit the nail on the head? Can't answer? Do you really think I'm stupid? Easy to fool?"

Next time you comfort someone, find a better reason!

I know I'm not as good as him, that's why you helped him!

He leaned closer, his eyes turning somewhat strange. "Have you heard... well, some rumors about me? Like... that I don't like women?"

Walid hadn't fully recovered from the shock of that fatal question, and subconsciously, honestly, he nodded again. "Uh... I've heard some things..."

He frankly admitted it.

But he immediately realized what was happening and stuck Muhammad's name in his throat.

Salman's family... what a damn family background!
They're all problem children!

Walid gave an awkward but polite smile.

"Brother, don't blame people for spreading gossip. After all, you're 26 and still not married..."

Within the royal family, it's indeed hard to imagine, and it's normal for it to inspire speculation.

He tried to ease the tension.

Turki scoffed, his laughter filled with disdain and a deep-seated bitterness.

"How could I not like women?"

He tilted his head back and gulped down a mouthful of wine, his Adam's apple bobbing. "I wasn't a virgin back when I was studying in America! I'm perfectly normal!"

He slammed down the bottle, stared intently at Walid, and said, enunciating each word clearly, "I...didn't...want...to...harm...anyone!"

……

(End of this chapter)