Farming Life Starting in Africa

Rosen leaned back on the sofa, watching the television screen change. That's how the television is here; swearing is commonplace, and occasionally you'll see footage of executions. Various methods of death, gruesome and uncensored, broadcast so bluntly—it really lowers your SM rating.

He stared at the news report, his mind racing. A rescue by US armed helicopters? That's too much of a coincidence.

Just then, the bathroom door opened. Swagger came out dressed in Patrick's clothes—a large floral shirt, khaki shorts, and flip-flops.

The shirt he wore sagged at the shoulders and the hem almost reached his thighs, which looked a bit funny.

Swagger was already a fairly tall white man, over 1.8 meters tall, and with a strong build, but compared to the black guy's physical attributes—Patrick's shoulders were as broad as a door panel—he still fell short.

"Hey buddy," Rosen waved at him and pointed to the television, "I just saw a news report on TV that I think you'll be interested in."

Swagger's expression changed instantly. He strode over, his slippers clattering on the floor. "What news?"

"Government forces were ambushed by rebels this morning. They were saved by a US armed helicopter."

Swagger stood in front of the television, stunned. He stared at the general speaking on the screen, but his eyes were clearly unfocused, his mind racing. After a long while, he finally spoke, his voice low, as if squeezed from his throat, "Our mission this morning... was to attack government forces? That helicopter's target... was us?"

Rosen didn't answer directly. Instead, he placed the Coke bottle on the coffee table, the bottom clinking against the glass. "What else? Don't you think it's all too coincidental?" He paused, looking into Swagger's eyes. "Should I go check with the government forces?"

Swagger's eyes lit up. "Is that okay?"

"Why not?" Rosen shrugged. "I'll go ask tonight. I know all the government troops over there; their information should be the most accurate."

"Yes, thank you!" Swagger said, his voice a little hoarse.

"Alright, the room next to Patrick's is a storage room with a folding bed. Go tidy it up yourself. I'll take the gun to check it out first." Rosen said, standing up, picking up the gun bag from the ground, and heading upstairs.

He'd never handled such a high-end gun in his life. In this godforsaken place like Africa, Soviet-made weapons were everywhere, AK-47s were commonplace, nothing unusual. American-made weapons were different; they weren't widely available, and they were ridiculously expensive. Rosen's fortune couldn't afford to be frivolous.

Here, expensive items are rare. It's not that nobody wants them, it's that very few people can afford them. Even the government army uses AK47s, while for the rebels and bandits, getting a weapon that works is already a feat, regardless of the model.

Swagger's equipment is all high-end. Especially the bunch of accessories on the gun—night vision goggles, grenade launcher, various sights—made Rosen extremely envious.

Once the universal platform has scanned it, he won't have to keep using that AK74 anymore. This M4A1 carbine is more accurate and has a more stable trajectory, making it much more comfortable to shoot.

And those two sniper rifles. Rosen didn't have many ways to get his hands on these things before, and besides, he wouldn't have needed them in the past.

Although the AK74 is said to have an effective range of 700 meters, that's a theoretical value. Without a sight, you can't even distinguish someone's arm at 700 meters.

To be honest, at a distance of over 400 meters, most people can't even tell if someone standing there is male or female. If you have 6.0 vision, then disregard what I said; you practically have built-in 8x magnifying glasses, and you might even have Maasai genes from Africa.

Rosen took three rifles and two pistols out of his gun bag and handed them to the universal platform for scanning.

Then he sat down at the computer and started browsing the news online. There wasn't much exciting news in Uller; everything was calm, which was a little unsettling. On the other hand, things were quite lively in Ivia—the Zaka organization was stirring up trouble, bombing checkpoints one day, ambushing patrols the next, frequently creating explosive news.

To be honest, Rosen wasn't really interested in Swagger's revenge. It wasn't like he'd been betrayed; there was no need for him to risk his life for him. The problem was—he was really envious of the equipment the US military had.

How many valuable items would a legitimate US military base contain? Putting aside everything else, Stinger missiles are standard equipment, right?

Rosen has been eyeing that thing for a long time. With his current resources, he might be able to afford a gun, but anti-aircraft missiles? Dream on.

If you go and get involved with Swage, you might be able to take advantage of the chaos and snag some good stuff.

Rosen leaned back on the sofa, his mind already racing. Helping out wouldn't hurt; he'd take what he could, and if not, so be it. He was the kind of person who never did anything that didn't benefit him.

But then again, he was puzzled—Urre, this wretched place, so poor it was practically bankrupt, who were the US military planning to target by stockpiling Stinger missiles here? Were they meant for Commissioner Smith to use as fireworks? It was like using a cannon to kill a mosquito, utterly absurd.

As evening fell, the weather finally cooled down a bit. The breeze at least brought a touch of human warmth. Rosen strolled alone to the government army camp, not driving his car to avoid drawing attention.

The dim light at the camp entrance illuminated a few figures. Rosen approached and saw that the guys were gathered around a gas truck, smoking and playing cards. Smoke billowed around them, mingled with laughter and shouts, and the playing cards clattered loudly.

Rosen stood at a distance, his eyebrows twitching as he watched. He was incredibly conflicted—did these bastards even know what they were doing? Smoking next to a gas truck was no different from sitting on a barrel of explosives and setting off firecrackers.

He knew all too well how dangerous this thing was. The gas stations here didn't use any underground storage tanks at all; they just converted a scrapped tanker truck, connected a pipe, and started operating.

They often leak oil and gas everywhere. You don't even need to light an open flame; a static spark can send a bunch of people flying.

Rosen recalled how nerve-wracking it was every time he came to refuel, fearing he might accidentally get killed. Later, he hired Patrick, and the job was simply handed over to him—the black guy was fearless and daring, so Rosen was happy to have some peace and quiet.

Looking at this group of people shrouded in smoke, it's like their ancestral graves are burning! These people are truly fearless. One spark, and those seventy-two pure virgins are waiting for them in the sky.