In the heart of a sprawling, ultra-modern complex in the city of Dawahir Sultanate. proudly presents its exclusive Ancient Artifacts Exposition.
The grand hall glows with dramatic, low-key lighting. Massive spotlights cut through the darkness like golden blades, illuminating priceless relics from across human history. Artifacts worth tens of millions — some even hundreds of millions — rest inside sleek, bulletproof glass cases. Every piece is a treasure once belonging to emperors, pharaohs, and forgotten kingdoms. The air is thick with quiet power and old money.
Only the world's elite have been invited. Tycoon, Renowned collectors, and discreet royals move through the exhibition like shadows in tailored suits and flowing abayas. No ordinary enthusiasts here — when the treasures themselves belong to men who's wealth shapes industries and Government only people come of the same world admire them.
Among them stands Hanz, motionless in front of a tall, elegantly lit display case. Inside rests a magnificent ancient Dagger, curved, and forged from dark meteoritic iron that still seems to drink in the light.
A discreet plaque reads:
Pharaoh's Dagger
Late Period, Ancient Egypt
Previously from a private European collection
Acquired at Sotheby's, London, 2024
Hanz stares at the weapon with intense focus. The soft overhead lights cast sharp shadows across his face, highlighting the tension in his jaw. The blade gleams coldly behind the glass, as if whispering secrets of desert conquests and divine kings from over three thousand years ago.
The entire hall hums with quiet conversations in multiple languages, the faint clink of champagne flutes, and the almost reverent silence of people standing before objects that once belonged to gods and legends.
Then a calm voice suddenly came from beside him.
"Beautiful piece, isn't it?"
Hanz shifted his eyes slightly.
An older man stood beside him in a charcoal suit, silver-haired, carrying a crystal glass in one hand. No security at his side. Men like him did not need visible protection.
"The meteorite composition is fascinating," the man continued, studying the dagger through the glass. "Civilizations have always attached strange meanings to stones that fell from the sky."
Hanz said nothing.
The man smiled faintly.
"I heard you've been searching for something similar."
Silence.
Then Hanz finally looked at him.
"And what exactly have you heard?"
The billionaire slowly turned toward him.
"That somewhere in Zarakhanda..." he said softly, "there exists a blade people have spent decades calling myth."
He paused.
"The Meteorite Sword."
Hanz's expression didn't change.
"But myths have an interesting habit," the man continued, taking a small sip from his drink. "They become expensive the moment someone proves they're real."
"What do you want?" Hanz asked.
The man met his eyes.
"If you find it..." A small smile formed on his lips. "...allow me to see it before the rest of the world does."
He leaned closer.
"And if you're willing to part with it," the man said smoothly, "I can promise you something far better than a museum display."
A deliberate pause hung between them.
"I can promise a number large enough to make nations reconsider their loyalties."
Hanz glanced back at the dagger resting in its illuminated case. The ancient blade seemed to drink in the low gallery lighting, its surface etched with faint, almost otherworldly patterns.
"But with everything happening in Zarakhanda right now," Hanz replied quietly, "some people have already paid a price far greater than money."
"Conflict creates scarcity," the man said, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Ice clinked softly against crystal. "And scarcity creates value."
Hanz gave him a measured look, the kind that said he understood perfectly. The logic was cold but elegant—if the Meteorite Sword were discovered amid the current political turmoil, its value could climb even higher.
Just then, Hanz's gaze shifted past the man's shoulder. A sharply dressed figure in a tailored dark suit was approaching through the dimly lit exhibit hall, a bodyguard trailing a few steps behind, relaxed but attentive.
"Mr. Hanz," the newcomer greeted.
"Mr. Kamara," Hanz replied with a polite smile. "I didn't expect to see you here."
He extended his hand, and the two men exchanged a firm handshake.
Kamara chuckled softly. "I'm doing a bit of traveling. Tomorrow I'll be in Turkey. A little window shopping, you could say."
Hanz turned slightly and introduced the man he had been speaking with. The man already knew exactly who stood before him: the President of the Republic of Nabuto.
"Good to see you here, Mr. President," the man said with a respectful nod.
"Thank you," Kamara replied.
"By the way, Hanz," the first man added, "you know how to reach me when the myth stops being a myth."
With a courteous nod, he disappeared into the crowd of elegantly dressed guests.
Hanz and Kamara continued walking through the exhibit hall, their footsteps echoing softly across the polished marble floor.
"I heard Faruq might become the next leader of Zarakhanda," Hanz said.
Kamara smiled faintly, though no warmth touched it.
"It's just a narrative decoy. The West may be trying to push Faruq into becoming more aggressive in his search for the Ancient Sword."
They stopped before a display of ancient Byzantine coins, their gold surfaces gleaming beneath the spotlights.
Kamara lightly tapped the glass.
"These coins," he said, "were once sold for nearly five hundred million dollars through a third party. The money helped finance a terrorist group in Iraq."
Hanz fell silent for a moment, the weight of the revelation sinking in.
"I never expected Zarakhanda to fall into the hands of terrorists," Hanz said as they continued walking. "Emmanuel was known for crushing extremist groups across Africa before they could even establish themselves."
Kamara remained silent for a moment before speaking.
"It all started when Emmanuel began aligning himself with Moscow after the West refused his request to acquire a missile defense system."
He adjusted the cuff of his sleeve.
"The West never liked Emmanuel's vision for Africa."
Hanz glanced at him.
"Which part?" he asked. "The nuclear ambitions?"
They passed through a set of glass doors and stepped onto the outer terrace of the complex, a private smoking lounge overlooking the city below.
The night skyline stretched endlessly before them. Towers of steel and glass pierced the darkness like illuminated spears. Giant digital billboards washed the streets below in shifting colors of blue and gold. Elevated highways coiled through the city like glowing rivers, while luxury cars moved beneath them in silent streams of white and red lights. In the distance, the coastline reflected the city glow like scattered stars on black water.
Kamara slowly shook his head.
"That was only one of his mistakes," he said. "He let himself get cornered during an interview with BBC."
Hanz took the cigar between his fingers and looked out at the city.
"You could call it ego," he said quietly. "Or maybe he simply started believing he was untouchable."
-Meanwhile, in Southeast Zarakhanda...
Inside the dimly lit command tent, the air was thick with tension and the smell of sweat, dust, and kerosene from the flickering lantern.
"Commander, according to this map, this is where the Meteorite Sword is most likely buried," said one of Faruq's field commanders, his finger pressing firmly onto the worn, rugged parchment spread across the table.
Faruq remained silent, his gaze distant, as if his mind were miles away, wrestling with deeper thoughts.
"How do we even know this map is authentic?" another lieutenant challenged. "Every tribe in Zharkhanda has their own version of the story. They could all be fakes."
Faruq stayed quiet, elbows on the table, his hands clasped tightly over his mouth, listening.
"Comman—"
"Shhh." Faruq cut the lieutenant off sharply. The entire tent fell into heavy silence.
He slowly lowered his hands to the table, his eyes scanning the faces of his men.
"Is anyone here able to tell me who really attacked us at Ragata Village—aside from Idris and Malik?"
The field commanders exchanged uneasy glances, silently daring one another to speak first.
"They might have had guns planted and ready," one lieutenant offered. "They were probably just waiting for us to walk into the trap."
Faruq's sharp gaze shifted. "You," he said, pointing to the second lieutenant on his left.
The lieutenant cleared his throat nervously before speaking.
"We should consider the possibility of Emmanuel loyalists inside the village, Commander."
At the mere mention of Emmanuel's name, Faruq's face darkened instantly. His jaw tightened, and a dangerous fire ignited behind his eyes. The old wound—deep, personal, and bloody—flared up again. Emmanuel's betrayal had cost him dearly… and not just him, but his entire family.
Faruq's voice dropped into a low, venomous growl.
"We're going back to that village," he said, fury blazing in his eyes. "And this time, I will burn it to the ground—with every last one of them still inside."
A heavy silence gripped the room.
"Don't be hasty, brother."
The deep, calm voice came from the entrance of the tent. All heads turned as a tall, composed man stepped inside—Faruq's older brother.
"Brother," Faruq said, his expression softening slightly as he watched him approach.
"The way they struck Amiri's hand and his unit… that wasn't the work of villagers or local fighters," his brother said as he pulled out a chair and sat down. "That was the work of professional soldiers."
Faruq's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?"
His brother replied simply. "You might be the next Commander Sefu if you rush back there blindly."
Faruq leaned forward. "Russia?"
"You got it."
Faruq said nothing, but the silence that followed was heavier than before.
His brother continued, his voice low and grave.
"Russian shadows are moving everywhere across Zarkhanda. The West knows it too. If you want to go back, wait until they least expect it."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes locking onto Faruq's with calm intensity.
"For now, you must prioritize the search for the Meteorite Sword. If we recover it, it could fund your entire campaign. The tribes will willingly submit to whoever holds that kind of power."
Faruq's eyes narrowed dangerously.
"Fund?"
The word slipped from his lips like a quiet hiss, heavy with disbelief.
His brother frowned. "What?"
Faruq slowly raised his head, his gaze burning.
"You think I crossed burning deserts and buried my brothers just for silver?"
"That's not what I meant—"
"Then what did you mean?" Faruq's voice sharpened like a blade. He pushed back from the table and stood abruptly, the wooden chair scraping harshly against the dirt floor.
"That blade is not currency."
He pressed a fist against his chest, right over his heart.
"The old tribes bowed before it because they believed heaven itself had touched the earth. Whoever holds the Meteorite Sword doesn't buy loyalty..."
His stare turned to cold steel.
"They kneel."
The tension in the tent thickened. His brother exhaled slowly and rose to his feet as well, refusing to back down.
"Do you really think those Toyota trucks, ammunition the West keeps supplying you come without a price, Faruq?"
He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a grave whisper.
"Nothing is free. They're after that sword too."
Faruq's jaw tightened, the muscles flexing beneath his skin.
"They'll sell it in some London auction house," his brother continued, "call it a 'historical treasure,' and use the money to reshape Zarkhanda into whatever serves their interests."
He stared directly into Faruq's eyes, unflinching.
"So don't stand there preaching to me about faith and destiny... when every power circling us is already turning your prophecy into a transaction.
-The Kremlin. Moscow. Russia
A sleek black armored sedan glided through the towering Kremlin gates under the stony gaze of elite guards standing motionless in the biting Moscow cold. Snowflakes drifted lazily in the gray morning light as the vehicle passed through multiple layers of security checkpoints before vanishing into the fortified inner compound.
The rear door opened with a heavy click. General Anton Volkov emerged, his tall frame wrapped in a crisp black coat. A dark leather folder was tucked securely beneath his arm. His polished boots crunched sharply against the snow-dusted pavement as he strode forward with purposeful, unhurried steps.
He entered the grand building without pause. Long marble corridors stretched before him, lined with imposing portraits of Russian statesmen and legendary military heroes. The sharp echo of his footsteps cut through the hushed silence, causing uniformed aides and officers to step aside and offer respectful nods as he passed.
At the end of the corridor, two stern-faced presidential guards flanked a pair of heavy oak doors emblazoned with the golden presidential seal. One guard opened the door silently.
Inside, President Viktor Sokolov sat behind a massive antique desk, reviewing a stack of classified documents beneath the warm glow of a desk lamp.
General Volkov approached and placed the leather folder squarely in front of him.
"International media outlets are already pushing the narrative that Faruq could be the next president of Zarakhanda," Volkov said.
President Viktor glanced at the photographs inside the folder, then let out a low, amused chuckle.
"Media?" he repeated, leaning back in his leather chair. A faint, cynical smile played on his lips. "If they truly had their replacement ready, they wouldn't be announcing him to the world like a prize horse."
His expression darkened.
"No… they're holding something back."
He tapped the folder with two fingers, his eyes narrowing.
"Dig deeper, Anton. Nobody reveals their real card on the first move."