The Imperial Hunter

[Laundrying… is it?]

“Yes. Ask for weapons instead of money. Or even formally accept the money and then place an order.”

[…]

A margin of 3,800 percent meant, in simple terms, that you could exchange one gun for thirty-nine guns. You had to consider the price difference between different firearms, though.

Furthermore, once we laundered our inventory from U.S. to Chinese-made, it became easier to use or sell, whether domestically or internationally. This was because countries and armed groups that use Chinese-made weapons were mainly distributed in the third world, making tracking more challenging.

It might seem funny to give and receive weapons, but it was a trade that could be validly established, accomplishing both weapons stockpiling and financial gain.

[I haven’t considered it myself, but will they really agree?]

“Why, because of their pride?”

[Yes. No matter the circumstances, they ultimately treat Chinese-made as cheap compared to U.S. products. Chinese people’s inferiority complex would explode.]

It was a valid point. However, there was a part being overlooked.

“What matters here is the form. Our trading partner here is, after all, the Samhap Association. The offense will be against Samhap’s pride, not the Communist Party’s. That’s exactly what you need to create.”

Negotiations could be prolonged if the conditions were met.

“If they get angry, gradually reduce the margin. When they see the decreasing payment, any practical person will develop some greed.”

Since the budget had already been approved by the time of the initial proposal acceptance, you could use double books if additional negotiations were not reported.

[So, you’re saying you want to create opportunities for embezzlement?]

“Yes.”

I had one firm belief about China as a country. There was no uncorrupted corner in China, that was my belief. Whether the National Security Agency’s Third Country Division was in charge of this or the Joint Chiefs of Staff’s Action Unit, I didn’t know, but they would never miss an opportunity to fill their pockets with government money. After all, the Chinese Communist Party was the world’s leading group of experts in the field of embezzlement.

“Can you do it?”

 

[ can handle it.]

Suyeon’s response was decisive.

“Nothing else?”

[No.]

“Alright, see you later.”

I ended the dry conversation and spent some time reading the newspaper provided in the room.

About an hour passed. The guys who had gone out one by one returned, each carrying a light bag. They had moved discreetly to avoid suspicion when they went out and came back. About half of the bag’s contents were weapons and ammunition.

Ghost guns. Fully automatic firearms with untraceable serial numbers.

According to U.S. law, citizens had the right to manufacture and possess firearms for purposes other than sale, even without a license. Furthermore, if the completeness of the firearm’s lower receiver was less than 80%, it was not considered a firearm, even if all other parts, including the barrel, were perfect.

Due to these two provisions, it was relatively easy to acquire unregistered firearms in the United States. All you needed was information about a trustworthy dealer.

Although California regulated ghost guns strongly through state law, it was a futile effort since enforcement was impractical. How would they monitor the entire country when every citizen could potentially become a black market dealer?

The largest room where we had gathered briefly became tense with the guys checking their equipment.

Kyung-tae assembled my share of handguns and handed them to me.

“For dealing with neighborhood thugs, this should be sufficient. Hyungnim shouldn’t have to use his hands personally.”

The Ruger handgun was slim and came with a suppressor and an optical sight attached. I gripped it and checked the wrist. While the firepower was low due to the short barrel, the weight was actually heavier than most ordinary handguns. However, the weight being forward made it feel good in my hand.

But the strength of this gun lay in its excellent noise control.

Kyung-tae pointed to the window and suggested. 

“Why don’t you try shooting it?”

Beyond the window where raindrops were splashing, the dark sea was rolling in waves. I opened the window as Kyung-tae had suggested. Raindrops fell over the window sill, and the carpet on the floor was slowly getting wet. I aimed at the horizon where the sea met the sky.

Tap, tap, tap!

Tiny popping sounds. That was all the gunshots were. The recoil was also minimal, so there wasn’t much of a sense of actually firing. Faint smoke and ejected casings rolling on the floor were the only evidence of the quiet gunfire. Even if you fired in the middle of the city, it would be difficult to trace you by the sound alone.

I lowered the barrel, and Kyung-tae, who had been watching, said. 

“Do you like it?”

I nodded firmly.

“It’s genuine, huh? And the bullets are subsonic?”

“Yes.”

Subsonic bullets, which were slower than the speed of sound, did not create shockwaves, making them quieter than supersonic bullets.

The remaining team members most of them were armed with low-noise firearms, using .22LR subsonic ammunition. While they had low stopping power, they were still lethal. Especially in the hands of a skilled shooter.

As one of my subordinates collected the casings, I gazed at my handgun for a moment.

‘Even just this firearm is a favorite of mass shooters.’

This gun had killed numerous people in schools, post offices, and stores. Yet, those who didn’t know much about it would mock it as a gun used by kids due to its supposedly weak bullets.

Drrrrrr, thump.

Kyung-tae, who had closed the window, spread a map on the table and conducted a brief briefing. The information gathered from outside was included here. Although the time given was short, capturing and interrogating the gang members, who seemed like gangsters, and extracting information about the local power dynamics shouldn’t be too difficult, especially with the kind of technical pain they could inflict.

“First, let’s focus on the fashion code of the ‘White Guard.'”

I was an observer. Kyung-tae continued talking to his subordinates without paying attention to me.

“Their colors are red, white, and black. It seems to be taken from the Nazi flag or something. If you see someone wearing black clothes, a white hat, and red shoes, consider them white; they are the prime targets. Since most of their Adidas is a knockoff, it should be easy to spot.”

In the United States, street gangs were clearly distinguished by group traits. Hand signals, dances, songs, chants, graffiti, symbolic symbols, tattoos, colors, and clothing were the most important means of identification. Unless they were clueless foreigners or tourists, the locals had no reason to adopt this fashion style.

The briefing didn’t last long. There wasn’t that much information because the information obtained had been cross-verified. Street gangs weren’t that complex of prey, and Kyung-tae clapped his hands.

“We’ll start the job tomorrow, so let’s disband here for today.”

The situation was a bit challenging because they had been traveling long distances for days. To be at their best, the hunting dogs needed sufficient rest.

‘When you can rest, you should.’

Kyung-tae said this with good reason since the possibility of encountering the vanguard of the imperialists was not zero.

“Oh, by the way.”

Kyung-tae, who was leaving after saying his goodbyes, stopped for a moment.

“Have you contacted Suyeon-noonim?”

“Yeah.”

“What happened?”

“Those Chinese bastards forced us to sell weapons to them.”

That one sentence was enough explanation. Suyeon’s discretion was at a level where she could handle most matters with post-approval. Therefore, the fact that she requested my approval already intuitively revealed the scale and complexity of the deal. Kyung-tae wore a regretful expression.

“It’s a shame. It would have been nice if she could join us on this trip.”

“It’s inevitable.”

“It’s a pity. I wanted to show her the forest where the ‘President’ used to be, even if we missed the main target.”

The guy who had finished what he wanted to say went back to his room with a “Take a good rest.”

I stared at the remnants of the briefing left on the table.

‘Pathetic.’

That was the assessment of the police force in Oakland.

Knowledge about the hunting ground was as important as knowledge about the prey. It was natural for my hunting dogs to scrape up law enforcement data in this city.

In this city, more than ten shooting incidents were reported on average every day. However, the police response didn’t even reach half of that. The response time was also abysmal. Even though reports were received, cases where hours passed before the scene was inspected were abundant. It was a city where gunfights were commonplace. Truly deserving of the nickname “Baby Iraq.”

Therefore, Kyung-tae believed in proceeding quietly whenever possible, but he also believed in the possibility of using high-powered support weapons if necessary.

Trivial matters must not be taken lightly.

If we were the lions, then the prey was the mouse pups. While it might be somewhat excessive preparation against street gangs, doing our best for small matters was a shortcut to not ruining big affairs.

I traced the map with my fingertips.

The places where gunfights mainly occur were determined. These places—streets, and avenues—represent the boundaries of different organizations, and the frequency and intensity of gunfights showed how hostile each organization was toward the others. Kyung-tae had drawn circles several times with a red pen.

‘The hottest places are 84th Street and Hegenberger Road in the east, 23rd Street in the south, MacArthur Intersection in the north, and the harbor area in the west…’

Although the harbor was the top priority search area, if there were no results here, the search would need to be expanded to other places.

However, when comparing the police arrest records and the racial and income distribution maps by residence, it seemed unlikely that things would get that complicated. Except for the harbor, the rest were all places where blacks and Hispanics clashed.

In this racially dominated slum, the only place where pale white scraps could intrude and must intrude was the harbor.

At most two days. At least a week. If it took longer than this to eliminate this gang of skinheads, I would feel quite embarrassed personally.

The inside of my eyelids felt hot. It was a nauseating fatigue. After tidying up the data, I put the loaded gun under my pillow and lay down on the bed. It was enough to take a short nap until dinner. As someone who always lacked sleep, taking short naps was an inevitable habit.

The sound of rain hitting the window pane was monotonous.

As if falling into the abyss of sleep, the consciousness that kept getting closer and farther gradually sank deep.

A dream.

One of the greatest pains in my life.

Amidst the remains of a large beast and suddenly facing it, I reflexively distanced myself and activated the magic circuit. Mage’s Combat stance. However, the beast was already dead, not showing any movement. The flesh was all decayed and gone, leaving behind a heap of bones with an empty darkness inside the skull. I reconfirmed that eerie appearance and realized that I was in a dream. Because this was…

“Damn bastard.”

Just looking at it made my teeth grind. My Master, who wandered through the labyrinth of memories and chased me to the very end, absurdly died due to magic depletion.

Moreover, the fact that my body moved as I wished in this dream meant that this wasn’t the usual nightmare. As my thoughts reached this point, I soon became disappointed that the alarm would ring. It was a rare ordinary dream. A chance to get a bit of deep sleep.

‘No, it’s not ordinary.’

This lucid dreaming was a side effect left by the pursuit of my Master.

Having a bit of time, I began to notice my surroundings. A forest filled with giant trees. The closest thing to me was the “President” with an opened magical circuit. As if it were an ordinary dream, the memory of the impressive encounter served as the background. However, unlike reality, the magical field of the “President” didn’t weaken my magical field. It must be an unreal possibility since it was a dream.

Leaning against the fence of the walking path, I silently gazed at the remains of my Master. More precisely, a pair of black eye sockets in the skull that still bore traces of human presence.

When I gazed into the darkness, the darkness gazed back at me.

As if it wasn’t a simple misunderstanding, the darkness spoke to me.

[Release…me…]

It wasn’t a mere illusion, nor was it a fear entrenched in my subconscious. Perhaps it was an auditory hallucination created by the dream, a lingering fragment of a specter.

[Release…me…]

I responded nervously.

“What are you saying? You’re a corpse down to the marrow.”

Disclaimer:

This novel is a work of fiction! While it may incorporate elements inspired by our "real" historical world, including historical events, settings, and cultures, it is important to note that the story and characters are entirely products of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to real persons, living or deceased, or actual events is purely coincidental. This work should be enjoyed and interpreted as a work of fiction and not as a representation of historical facts or reality.

Also, if you find some error in translation please do let me know by tagging me (@_dawn24) in our Discord server. Since this series is kinda hard to translate. But I'll try my best to make it at least readable :)

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