CHAPTER 319: CHAPTER 302: YOU’RE RISKING YOUR LIFE!

"Being a fugitive is a perfect excuse, a shortcut into the Middle Eastern underworld." Xiao Lin nodded.

"You’re playing with your life!"

"All the information has broken off, yet just now I found the mark left by Night Eagle, which vanished in this slum." Xiao Lin, showing rare confusion, coldly announced his decision: "Entering the Middle East, we don’t have the backup of Dragon Soul from now on, we’re just ordinary people. Don’t expect anyone to support us; Jordan is the only clue we can look for."

"General, exactly who are we waiting for?" Miao Shaoqing suddenly asked, equally confused. Although confident in his tracking skills, he knew the opponent wasn’t a clumsy character and must have noticed something.

"I have a question, who’s eliminating obstacles for us?" Others might not feel much about this, but Miao Shaoqing knew it deeply.

"No matter his purpose, as long as he doesn’t interfere with us, that’s fine." Xiao Lin was silent for a moment, then raised his head: "Get me a map of the casino and the entire sewer system of Amman."

A new day is a new beginning, yet on such a sunlit morning, someone let out a scream of fear.

A middle-aged woman, as per her usual habit, wove through the alley heading to another market. However, on what should be an ordinary street lay four corpses, and the hot air reeked of blood, a stench that even with time couldn’t be dispelled.

"Allah truly bless!" the woman muttered in fear. Nearby residents, disturbed by the scream, opened their windows only to close them again because of the strong smell of blood. Those not afraid of trouble began to gather around the bodies, and some had already picked up phones to call the police. The tranquil morning was utterly broken; various speculations began to stir among the crowd. It wouldn’t take long for the murder case to become sensational, fear gradually growing in people’s hearts, while the police would open investigations, and clues about the masterminds of these deaths would point towards suspects.

Haha! A man with most of his face covered by a black veil watched coldly as the police drove in, then disappeared into the crowd. It wouldn’t take long before his portrait spread throughout Amman, and what to do thereafter wasn’t his concern.

The Middle Eastern sun is fierce, and even with a headscarf, one feels roasted alive. Passing through the merchants, he found the first mark left by Night Eagle—a sideways isosceles triangle, with some drawings in the middle. To a passerby, it seemed like a totem, but to Xiao Lin, it was a word.

Following the code’s mark, the second spot was near a nearby incense shop. As with touching last night using a fingertip, there was only one triangle with no additional messages. Xiao Lin squatted at the entrance of the Incense Candle Hall, wrapped tightly and looking like a complete vagabond. Originally fine skin had a layer of mud oil applied, a specialized disguise technique by Dragon Soul, instantly aging young skin by decades.

The parched texture was dry and coarse, fingers holding a local cigarette, and muddied eyes fixated on a point. Such vagabonds were common in Amman, fleeing here from other countries, their people disrupted by wars between nations.

Opposite the incense shop was a temple, with many coming to worship. To the left of the temple was an open space, likely belonging to the temple, and to its right was a bathhouse, nothing particularly unusual. Night Eagle left marks here for a reason. A mark may not only indicate direction but also describe an event or person. Night Eagle didn’t know who might come, leaving only a reminder or hint.

The old man stretched lazily and got up: "Can I have a bowl of water?"

The owner of the incense shop, a woman, poured a little water into a small cup and handed it to the old man.

"Thank you!"

The temple’s pilgrimage began, with chants slowly rising. The old man sat cross-legged, palms upward on the stone, resembling a believer basking in the deity’s grace.

A group of people emerged from the bathhouse into the temple, the one in the middle appearing not very old, aged between thirty and thirty-five, surrounded by seven or eight individuals. From their gait, it was evident they were trained, likely local special forces or ex-military. This man differed greatly from the bearded man seen last night, exuding a fierce aura.

The young man turned to look behind, then proceeded into the temple, while the old man bowed his head and chanted slowly.

"See, that’s Hassan," a few women, wrapped in thick headscarves, stood by, speaking quietly among themselves.

"The leader of the underground organization in Amman," one woman spoke with an exceptionally pleasant voice, causing the old man to glance at her a few times.

"Don’t just say something like that, he’s a well-known wealthy man in Amman," another slightly plump woman quickly interjected to stop the conversation: "Last time, a journalist asked this question and got killed. It’s rumored outside that Hassan did it."

"Such a man is both dangerous and charming, don’t you agree?"

"Ladies, this young man comes daily to this bath and, after a cleanse, goes to the temple for prayer," the incense shop owner playfully winked at the women. In the Middle East, women are not allowed to talk to men; they have no social status, let alone the freedom to frequent the same bathhouse. Women have their own channels and recreational spaces. Discussing a man like this is quite a violation. The old man staggered to his feet, his numb legs moving somewhat awkwardly.

"Thank you! Thank you! May Allah bless you." The old man returned the cup to the incense shop owner and slowly walked forward, leaning against the white wall.

"Truly pitiful, I heard there was a homicide at the World Trade Center this morning with several casualties."

"Mm... yes!"

Their conversations always seemed numerous, with segments bearing little connection. Their jumpy thought processes were hard to follow. Moving further down is the slum where the wealth gap becomes unmistakably apparent. The filthy streets exude a strong stench of decay; the crowded buildings house people packed together, with visible traces of drug use everywhere, even though drug trade is illegal here, someone always manages to smuggle contraband.

The old man dragged his feet step by step. Some people would look up at him, while others remained absorbed in their own world; this place’s pace was unusually slow. (To be continued. If you enjoy this work, please visit Qidian (qidian.com) to vote for recommendations or monthly votes. Your support is my greatest motivation.)