Farming Life Starting in Africa

Seeing the child nod, Rosen turned around and took a step. In that instant, he heard the sound of a bullet being chambered.

His superhuman reaction speed allowed him to act without hesitation—he lunged forward, rolled forward, and spun around twice on the ground.

"Bang—bang—bang!"

Three bullets flew past where he had just been standing, hitting the dirt road not far away and kicking up a small cloud of dust.

Rosen crawled quickly on the ground, using both hands and feet to scramble to the back corner of the vehicle, hiding in the triangular space between the minivan and the pickup truck. He took a breath, his heart pounding, but his mind was clear.

He glanced at the minibus in the ditch—the people inside were lying haphazardly, their bodies riddled with bullet holes and covered in blood.

"Damn it," Rosen gritted his teeth, "we've run into a trap."

As his adrenaline surged, a nameless rage welled up within Rosen. These were a bunch of inhuman terrorists, robbing him right under his nose.

He pulled a PKM light machine gun from the capsule, already loaded with a 250-round 7.62mm magazine. He propped the machine gun on the ground, butt against his shoulder, and opened fire on the car from behind.

"Da da da da da—"

The gunshots were deafening, exploding across the open wilderness. Shell casings flew out one by one, clattering and falling to the ground, smoking.

He didn't even hear anyone's voice coming from inside the car. The whole car was riddled with holes from his punches, and less than half a minute later, the sound of the engine stalling came from the empty compartment.

"Click" - the bullets were all fired, and the barrel was still smoking.

Rosen then stood up, drew his pistol, and cautiously peered into the car.

The scene inside the car made him uneasy. On the driver's and passenger's seats lay two shattered AK47s, their stocks broken. The three men were mangled beyond recognition. Blood and bits of flesh were scattered everywhere, and the air reeked of blood and gunpowder.

Rosen stood there for a while, suppressing the nausea.

In Africa, encountering death is commonplace. If he vomited every time, he would have vomited his stomach out long ago.

That little kid must be a Boy Scout; there are plenty of them around here.

They were brainwashed by terrorist organizations from childhood, and they kill without batting an eye. There can be no mercy for such people. The amount of blood on their hands is countless; they can no longer be considered normal human beings.

"Damn it, what bad luck." Rosen spat and put the PKM into his capsule space.

He had several more guns like this in the capsule, just in case of such emergencies. He wouldn't engage in a shootout with a handgun; that's something only idiots in movies do. The safest approach with enemies is to riddle them with bullets.

He then switched to a PKM from the capsule space and, carrying the gun, moved towards the minibus in the ditch.

The scene inside the vehicle was horrific; people lay sprawled out, a chaotic mess. Rosen stood on the edge of the ditch, looked down, and shouted, "Are there any survivors inside?"

He was just asking casually, not holding out much hope. Here, it's very difficult to survive being shot by a rifle bullet—massive blood loss can kill you within minutes, unless it's just a minor scratch.

There was no response from inside the car. Rosen sighed. It seemed the car had been stopped by those terrorists, who then got in and opened fire.

He turned and went back to his car, starting the engine. Rosen gripped the steering wheel, took a few deep breaths to calm himself. This was the first time he'd riddled someone with bullets.

I felt inexplicably irritable. Being a good person here means risking being shot in the back.

If it weren't for his skill, he would have taken several bullets. His bulletproof vest hadn't been tested in actual combat yet; who knew if it could really stop rifle bullets at close range? If it didn't work, he would have been done for today.

He stepped on the gas, and the pickup truck roared past the two wrecked cars. Rosen glanced at the two cars in the rearview mirror; they grew smaller and smaller until they became two tiny black dots and disappeared into the dust.

It was almost noon when Rosen arrived at Hassan's village. It was a very primitive village of thatched huts, with only a few dozen houses scattered around, surrounded by a simple wall.

The old village chief, Abubakar, had been waiting at the village entrance for a while. Rosen parked the car at the entrance, then opened the door and jumped out.

Abubakar was a tall, thin old man with shiny black skin and wrinkles on his face like a cracked riverbed.

Seeing Rosen get out of the car, he immediately went to greet him, placing his left hand on his right wrist against his chest, bowing his head in a tribal salute, before looking up and saying in broken English, "Hello, Mr. Honey Badger. Hassan told me that a very large vehicle would be coming today, bringing us weapons."

Rosen returned the greeting, mimicking Abubakar's gesture. "Hassan is a good lad, reliable. And I've come as agreed."

"Haha, it's his honor to know you, and a blessing for our village." Abubakar was very polite and spoke with great tact, which surprised Rosen.

It seems this old man has had quite a bit of exposure to the outside world in the past; he's not some country bumpkin who's never seen the world. He probably had some adventures when he was young.

"You can come into our village and rest for a while. We have prepared a sumptuous meal for you."

"No need." Rosen waved his hand, not wanting to waste any more time. "I have to go back after delivering the goods, and I need to get home before dark. You can have someone come out to check the goods now."

He didn't want to go into a strange village where there were no outsiders. There were many taboos here, and he could easily break them if he wasn't careful. He didn't want to cause trouble.

Abubakar nodded, not insisting, and turned to shout into the village in the local dialect, which Rosen couldn't understand.

A few moments later, several young men emerged from the village, shirtless, muscular, and wary-looking. They gathered around the truck bed, their eyes gleaming as they stared at the pile of things covered by the tarpaulin.

Rosen lifted the canvas, revealing an AK47 and ammunition boxes inside.

The young men suddenly became excited, whispering among themselves, and one of them reached out to touch the gun.

The transaction went smoothly without any unexpected problems. Rosen brought 15 AK47s and 2 rounds of ammunition with him.

Abubakar inspected the goods, checking each one carefully, his movements quite practiced, clearly indicating he had handled many guns before.

After inspecting the goods, Abubakar took out a cloth bag from his robe, inside which was a piece of gold weighing nearly one kilogram and not very pure.

Rosen took it, weighed it in his hand, smiled and nodded, then casually put it into his pocket and stored it in his capsule space. A short while later, the omnipotent platform extracted more than 800 grams of gold.

Rosen got back into the car, started the engine, and waved to Abubakar: "I'm leaving. Contact me again if you need anything."

Abubakar bowed again, muttering words of thanks, but Rosen didn't really listen.

On the way back, I passed by those two cars again. The cars had been towed away, leaving only corpses on the ground. It seems their accomplices are still around here; this place is becoming increasingly unsafe.