The Middle East: From War Correspondent to Middle Eastern Influencer

If the refugee camps outside are display cases of despair, then this place is a pure gathering place of violence.

Wu Hen walked down the cement steps for about ten meters before his view suddenly opened up.

This is a vast space transformed from an abandoned underground air defense facility from the Cold War era.

Overhead, several incandescent lights flickered on and off amidst the roar of the diesel generator, cutting the entire underground space into bizarre and surreal shadows.

Without any planning whatsoever, green ammunition boxes, dilapidated wooden tables, or simply waterproof tarpaulins laid on the ground on both sides of the air-raid shelter were haphazardly piled up—these were the stalls in the black market.

Wu Hen scanned his surroundings warily.

The sight here is enough to suffocate any ordinary person in peacetime.

At a stall on the left, an Arab man with a full beard was sitting amidst a pile of disassembled weapon parts. In front of him were more than a dozen badly worn AK-47s, several Chinese-made Type 56 semi-automatic rifles, and even a Russian-made PKM general-purpose machine gun.

Not far to the right, several armed men wearing black headscarves were gathered around a metal barrel. This was the best-selling anesthetic on the battlefield, which could temporarily make the cannon fodder who were about to go to the battlefield forget their fear of death.

In a secluded corner, Wu Hen saw several young women who were barely clothed. They were tied to iron pipes like goods, their eyes empty and numb, waiting to be bought by mercenaries who had earned money by selling their lives.

Here, morality, law, and human rights are completely nonexistent.

The only rules that work are violence and the dollar.

[Host's current location detected: Core area of ​​the Benghazi underground arms black market.]

[Check-in successful! Congratulations, host, on successfully checking in at the high-risk area.]

[Skill Reward Obtained: Basic Firearms Repair Mastery.]

[Receive a cash reward: $2000]

I haven't had a chance to check the reward I just received.

Suddenly, several gunshots rang out from the deepest part of the black market, followed by a roar: "Traitor! Seize him! He's a government spy!"

That one shout ignited the entire black market.

Wu Hen had no control over his movement and was being pushed forward by the crowd.

The wound on his left shoulder had been hit hard several times, causing him to gasp in pain.

After he finally managed to break free from the crowd, his back slammed heavily against a concrete wall.

He looked up, panting heavily, and found himself squeezed into a dead end.

The unrest outside did not last long.

As Benghazi's largest underground black market, it has its own order.

Less than two minutes later, several muffled but precise bursts of fire drowned out the clamor of the crowd.

The unfortunate man, accused of being a "government spy," didn't even have time to let out a final scream before being dragged away by several fully armed black market guards. The crowd quickly dispersed, as if nothing had happened, and returned to the stalls piled high with weapons to continue their transactions.

Wu Hen leaned against the wall, gently rubbing his aching shoulders. He was about to turn around and leave this dead end, returning to the main passage of the black market to look for more valuable clues.

Just then, he keenly caught the sound of an argument.

The sound came from behind a corner of a dead-end alley.

Through the dim light, Wu Hen could see the situation over there.

Four men were standing around several rusty tin barrels.

Three of them were dressed in traditional Arab robes and had headscarves, an attire and demeanor typical of Libyan local tribal militia members.

Standing opposite them was a portly, obese man, presumably a local Libyan arms dealer. He had half a cigar dangling from his mouth and an air of absolute confidence about him.

On the metal bucket between them sat a worn-out wooden crate containing several well-worn FN FAL automatic rifles and a few Russian-made AKMs.

The blueing on the gun body had long since faded, and the wooden handguard was covered with scratches, some of which were wrapped with black insulating tape.

"Twelve hundred dollars apiece? You're robbing us!" one of the tribal militants said, suppressing his anger. "Two days ago, this kind of scrap metal was worth at most five hundred dollars!"

"Robbery? Ha!" The fat arms dealer exhaled a puff of smoke and chuckled contemptuously. "Brother, get your facts straight! The fighting on the front lines is intense, the bombing has cut off all supply lines, and the entire black market in Benghazi is short of supplies! 1,200 dollars is the current price, and in an hour, it might be 1,300 dollars! If you think it's too expensive, you can go to the battlefield and pick up government weapons, but I must warn you, without these guns, your tribe probably won't survive this week; it will be robbed clean by the Ravens."

It's crows again.

"We only have two thousand dollars in cash," the tribal leader gritted his teeth. "Give us these five guns, and we'll pay the rest with our sheep next month."

"Are you kidding me? A flock of sheep?" The fat man stood up. "I only accept Franklins and gold here! If you don't have them, get the hell out of here! Don't hold me up!"

After saying that, the fat man made a move to close the wooden box.

"Buying this junk that could explode at any moment for twelve hundred dollars is really stupid. Maybe I can help you solve this problem."

The sound startled the four people, who all turned around to look at Wu Hen walking towards them.

"Who are you?!" The fat arms dealer reached for the holster on his waist. In this underground black market, anyone who dared to openly jump out and steal business was either a powerful outsider or a fool who was tired of living.

The three tribal militants looked Wu Hen up and down; he was an Asian young man who looked to be only in his early twenties, and he seemed out of place in this Middle Eastern land.

Wu Hen ignored the fat man's threat and looked directly at the tribal leader: "I have a way to get better stuff, at least 70% new Russian-made AK-47s, with three full magazines. It doesn't cost $1,200, just $800 apiece. If it costs $2,000, I can give you three at most, but there won't be any magazines included."

Wu Hen currently has five extra AK-47s in good condition, which is more than he can use by himself.

"Eight hundred dollars? A better quality AK-47?" The tribal chief's eyes gleamed. "Asian, what makes you think we should believe you? In this black market, there are more swindlers than spent bullet casings on the ground."

"You damn yellow-skinned monkey, how dare you steal my business on my turf?!" Before Wu Hen could answer, the fat arms dealer was already furious. This wasn't just about a few thousand dollars in business; it was about his authority in this black market area!

"Click!"

A crisp metallic clang rang out as the fat man drew a silver Makarov pistol and pressed the muzzle directly against Wu Hen's forehead.

"I don't care who sent you. Apologize to me right now, give me $1000, and get out of the black market! Otherwise, I'll smash your head into a rotten watermelon!" The fat man's finger was already on the trigger.

Upon seeing this, the three tribal members immediately took two steps back, afraid of being splattered with blood. In their eyes, this arrogant Asian boy was already a dead man.

However, facing the gun pointed at his forehead, Wu Hen's eyes did not show the panic the fat man had imagined.

After experiencing the events of the past few days, this level of threat no longer caused his heart to beat violently.

Just when the fat arms dealer thought he had the situation completely under control, Wu Hen made his move!

His movements were as fast as lightning. His left hand cut upwards, slicing into the inside of the fat man's wrist where he was holding the gun, his thumb pressing hard on the nerve in the man's wrist.

A sudden, intense numbness caused the fat man's right hand to lose its strength. At the same time, Wu Hen's right hand gripped the slide of the Makarov pistol, and with the help of his left hand, he flipped his wrist.

"what!"

The fat man let out a scream. His index finger was still in the trigger guard. The violent twist broke his finger!

The pistol changed hands.

Without pausing, Wu Hen delivered a powerful low sweeping kick, sending the 300-pound fat man crashing onto the concrete floor like a mountain of flesh.

Immediately afterwards, the cold barrel of a pistol was shoved into the fat man's open mouth, which was gaping open in pain, and pushed all the way to the back of his throat.

Wu Hen's finger rested lightly on the trigger.

"As I just said, buying scrap metal for twelve hundred dollars is stupid," Wu Hen said calmly. "Greed is not wrong, but sir, before you point a gun at someone's head, you'd better make sure you have the ability to pull the trigger."