Farming Life Starting in Africa

A bald young man was rushing out of the pedestrian crossing at full speed, swinging his arms as if he were participating in a sprint race.

He accelerated towards the front of the car, which was directly opposite the extended line of the bumper.

Rosen instinctively slammed on the brakes, but the distance was too short.

"Boom——"

The left side of the car struck the sprinting figure. The bald youth was as if he had been slapped from the side by an invisible hand. His body flew sideways a short distance, rolled half a circle at the edge of the sidewalk, and landed face down on the road.

Rosen immediately looked up at the traffic light. His side had a green light, so the person who had been hit had run a red light.

He sighed, pulled the handbrake, unbuckled his seatbelt, and got out of the car, feeling somewhat helpless.

If this were in Africa, he would have just driven off. If the black guy who was hit tried to stop the car and demand compensation, he would most likely have run him over.

However, there are no traffic lights in Uller, and the locals are all good at watching for cars, so almost no one gets hit.

Just then, a man with short, light brown hair wearing a suit came running from the sidewalk.

He rushed to the bald man's side with almost no slowing down, then pounced down, his knee precisely pressing on the bald man's waist, and one hand on the man's shoulder, shoving the man who had just propped himself up halfway back to the ground.

Rosen stood beside the car, tilting his head to watch the scene, feeling sorry for the guy's kidneys. The angle and force of that lunge were equivalent to delivering a heavy blow to the man's kidneys.

The man in the suit moved cleanly and efficiently. The angled sunlight cast a clear outline on his profile. His jaw was taut, his nose was straight, and he had a focused and sunny expression.

Rosen suddenly felt that the face looked familiar; wasn't that Brian, that handsome policeman?

Brian, pressing down on the bald man, shouted excitedly, "Tell me your name!"

The man pinned beneath him nearly fainted from the pain, and it took him several seconds to manage to utter a single sentence, "David Parker!"

Are you sure it's this name?

The bald man took a breath and said haltingly, "Of course... it's him... recruiting people in the old town... there'll be a competition in a few days... you'll see if you go try it out."

Seeing the two of them so intimately close, Rosen couldn't help but interrupt, "Hey buddy, you ran a red light and hit my car..."

He pointed to the front left of his car, where there was only an oil stain and no other scratches. After all, he wasn't going fast when he passed through the intersection, and he hit a soft target coming head-on. The paint on the crash beam wasn't even chipped, and the shell wasn't dented.

Upon hearing these words, the bald man on the ground suddenly flushed his pale, bleached face with color.

Damn it, I'm the one who got hit by the car! Bastard!

Brian took a moment to look up at Rosen, then casually pulled a badge from his suit pocket: "I'm an FBI agent, on official business."

"So you mean he hit my car, and that's your problem?" Rosen pointed at the bald man lying on the ground, his gaze shifting back and forth between Brian and the man.

A hint of embarrassment flickered across Brian's face. "That's his problem. You can seek compensation from him."

This is the first time he's encountered someone who talks to him so directly, hitting his sore spot! And it's an Asian guy, plus judging by Rosen's car, he clearly doesn't look like a poor person.

After Brian finished speaking, he pulled the bald man up from the ground and handcuffed him.

After everyone stood up, Brian looked at Rosen's car and didn't see any obvious dents or scratches.

"Hey buddy, your car doesn't look like it's been damaged much. Why don't we just leave it at that? I need to get it out of here."

"He ran a red light! I was startled by him, doesn't that count as emotional distress?"

Brian scratched his head. "Then you can send him a lawyer's letter. His name is Lorton, and he operates in the East Side of McCarran... Where do you live?" Brian said, kicking the bald man.

The bald man had recovered by now. He rolled his eyes and casually gave an address that sounded ridiculous. Since there weren't any tall buildings in the East District, he actually gave the 24th floor.

Although Rosen wasn't very familiar with McCarran, he could tell from the guy's expression that he was lying.

He probably didn't want to be confronted with demands for compensation. People who can afford this car can easily bully a low-level thug like him.

It's not that Lawson is being petty, but if you run a red light and get hit by a car while traveling abroad, you do need to compensate the driver.

If he doesn't make it clear to Brian that this bald guy broke the law first, it would be disgusting to be falsely accused later.

There is no such thing as pedestrians being exempt from compensation simply because they are in a vulnerable position, nor does the law stipulate that drivers who are not at fault must pay 10% of the compensation.

Rosen glanced at the time on his phone; it was already late. He didn't want to be too late on his first day of class, so he could only say helplessly, "Fine, I've noted down your badge number. If there are any problems later, I'll file a complaint against you."

Brian watched Rosen's retreating figure, scratching his head. What business was it of his?

He's already received enough complaints about food today; he doesn't want to be targeted by a rich guy driving a Mercedes-Benz G-Class.

In the United States, complaints from the poor and complaints from the rich are completely different concepts.

When Rosen arrived in Veslako, it was already nine o'clock.

The sun was shining down from the east, turning the tarmac, which had been bleached white by the sun, into something that looked like freshly laid hot asphalt.

The airport was small, with a runway, a few metal hangars, a low control tower, and a few antennas propped up on the roof. Two small planes were parked in the distance, their wings reflecting the sunlight.

Rosen parked his car in the shade next to the hangar and found Lone Wolf standing in the shadows by the hangar entrance, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, like a telephone pole that had been standing there for a long time.

When Rosen walked up to him, he thought he would say, "You're late," but Lone Wolf just glanced at him, then turned around, grabbed a stack of books from a folding table next to him, and handed them over.

Rosen looked down and counted. There were six books in total, some thick and some thin, with different colored covers. The one at the bottom with an orange cover was the thickest. When stacked together, they were heavier than the textbooks he remembered from his three years of high school.

The cover features a silhouette of an airplane and a line of small English letters, suggesting it's a basic textbook on flight principles.