Chapter 3: The Consortium’s Arrogance

Ganem shielded the unconscious Zaïd with his own body as a torrent of grit poured down like rain, instantly choking their mouths and noses. Darkness swallowed everything. The only thing left was the cold piece of iron in his palm, its fading warmth the last remnant of the Compass, which had gone completely silent as if it had never been awakened. The air reeked of sulfur and scorched earth—that suffocating scent unique to the collapse of an underground cavern. Holding his breath, Ganem listened to the muffled echoes of explosions above. He knew the two armored vehicles had vanished along with the cave-in, but he also knew Haleid’s army wouldn't stop there. In this moment, survival wasn't decided by weapons, but by the secrets buried deep within the desert. Ganem remembered his grandfather’s dying whisper: the heirloom was not just a key, but a curse. In the chaos, his fingers brushed against the miniature earpiece Laila had left behind; the signal was still pulsing faintly. It was their only lifeline.

Sand poured down his collar, chafing his skin raw. He didn't dare move, barely even daring to breathe for fear of kicking up a new dust storm. Zaïd’s body twitched slightly in his arms, his breathing shallow and rapid; he was clearly badly hurt. Ganem pressed his fingers to the man's pulse. It was there—weak, but steady. Gritting his teeth, he shoved the Compass back into his inner pocket. The hunk of metal pressed against his ribs like a piece of ice that refused to melt. From above came the sound of metal grinding against rubble, and the white glare of searchlights sliced through the crevices, forcing him to squint. He counted his heartbeats, waiting for the dust to settle.

As the air cleared, the searchlights pierced the ruins like swords. Haleid stood before the command vehicle, his white shirt blindingly bright under the harsh sun. He was calmly brushing non-existent dust from his cuffs, his expression cold. His leather shoes were polished to a mirror shine, stepping onto the scorched earth without picking up a single speck of grime, as if the surrounding chaos had nothing to do with him.

"Mr. Ganem, you've disappointed me," Haleid’s voice boomed through the loudspeaker, metallic and hard. "I gave you a chance, and you shattered it with your own hands. Now, this region will fall under the Riyadh Conglomerate for the development of the 'Super Source' project."

Ganem rose from the sand, brushing himself off with a terrifyingly calm gaze. Fine grit was still embedded in the creases of his fingers, and a tear in his shirt revealed skin burned dark by the sun. He didn't bother to fix it; he simply straightened his back, standing like a poplar tree growing out of the ruins.

"The Sand Abyss belongs to all the tribes, not to you," Ganem said. His voice wasn't loud, but it echoed clearly across the empty wasteland.

"Tribes?" Haleid sneered, waving his guards forward. "Honor is worthless in the face of capital. Sign the handover papers, or we'll leave you down there as an offering to the water."

Ignoring the threat, Ganem walked toward the black temporary command vehicle. Inside, the air conditioning was blasting, a sharp contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The sudden chill made him shiver, the sweat on his skin instantly turning to a thin frost. Haleid sat in a leather chair, tapping a holographic map of the geological strata. In the projection, several red curves fluctuated wildly, marking extremely high salinity levels.

"Here is your lie," Haleid said, pointing to the screen with an arrogant smile. "Look. Three thousand meters down, it's nothing but high-mineral brine. Completely undrinkable. Your research station is nothing but a prop."

Ganem stepped closer to the screen, his eyes scanning the data like a blade. His gaze lingered on the end of one curve for a few seconds, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly.

"pH 7.8, total dissolved solids over twenty thousand milligrams per liter?" Ganem asked softly.

"Exactly," Haleid nodded. "Typical Dead Sea-style saline waste."

Ganem let out a cold laugh and traced a line in the air, pointing out a contradiction. His finger stopped on the projection where a curve took an abrupt dive, completely disconnected from the data surrounding it.

"Impossible. This area consists of ancient oasis sedimentary layers. If the pH is near neutral, the dissolved solids should be primarily magnesium sulfate, not sodium chloride. I suspect the reagents you used were cheap, low-grade acidity indicators."

Haleid narrowed his eyes, looking at the geologist with sudden suspicion. His fingers tightened on the edge of the projection, his knuckles turning white.

"Are you questioning my team?"

"I'm questioning your arrogance," Ganem said, looking him straight in the eye. "You didn't even look at the core samples from the drilling sites before you dared to forge the data."

At that moment, the side door of the command vehicle was shoved open. Zaïd, the Elder, walked in, dragging his injured arm. Despite his weakness, his spine remained straight. A makeshift strip of cloth was wrapped around his left arm, the seeping blood already dried into dark brown scabs. In his hand, he clutched a golden seal—the token of the Tribal Council of Elders. The edges of the seal were worn bright, clearly passed down through generations.

"Haleid Sheikh," Zaïd’s voice was raspy but commanding. "The memory of the sands runs in the blood of the tribes. You have crossed the line. The Council warns you: if you dare trample the graves of our ancestors again, the fury that follows will be hotter than the midday sun."

Haleid didn't even stand up; he simply waved a hand dismissively. He didn't even look at Zaïd, as if the man were nothing more than a piece of inconvenient furniture.

"Cut the signal. Tell those fossils that their anger can't buy a single liter of water." He turned back to Ganem. "Now, to prove you aren't just making things up, we'll resample. Right now. If the data still shows pure water, I'll acknowledge the value of the research station."

Ganem felt a spark of hope; this was their only way out. He nodded and walked toward the equipment. His fingers lingered on the casing for a second, his fingertips feeling a slight chill. He knew this was a gamble—a bet on Haleid’s vanity and Laila’s reaction speed. Laila had been waiting in the shadows outside the vehicle; upon hearing the command, she quickly slipped into the vehicle's network system. Her fingers flew across the keyboard, code refreshing like a waterfall as she skillfully modified the backend calibration algorithms to simulate the high-frequency response of pure freshwater. Sweat beaded on her forehead, but her fingers never stopped, lines of code streaming past her eyes like wind across the desert.

The machine emitted a low hum, and the curves on the screen began to jump violently. The previously flat blue line suddenly spiked, showing a stunning purity index. Ganem stared at the curve, holding his breath until it stabilized at the peak, then slowly exhaled.

"Look!" Ganem pointed to the screen, his voice ringing with conviction. "This is the TDS value—only three hundred milligrams per liter! This is high-quality freshwater! Your cheap reagents were interfered with by the high temperatures, causing a severe false positive."

The surrounding chamber of commerce representatives began to whisper, and several tribal elders looked on in surprise. Some took off their sunglasses to lean closer to the screen before stepping back to exchange low-voiced opinions. The mask of composure on Haleid’s face cracked; he stared at the jumping curve, a flicker of panic crossing his eyes. His grip tightened on the armrest, his knuckles white.

"That's impossible..." Haleid muttered.

Ganem pressed the advantage, his tone passionate yet controlled. He didn't shout, but every word landed like a hammer blow in the cabin, ringing in everyone's ears.

"Mr. Haleid, the pride of your conglomerate has cost you basic scientific rigor. This water source isn't just wealth; it's the root of a civilization's survival. If you don't correct this today, all you'll harvest tomorrow is cracked earth and hatred."

Haleid took a deep breath, forcing himself to maintain a shred of dignity as he waved the guards to retreat. His movements were still elegant, but his fingertips were trembling slightly.

"Fine. Ganem, you win this debate." His eyes were as cold as ice. "But the game has only just begun."

Ganem and Laila packed their equipment and stepped out of the command vehicle. The sun was still blinding, but the air was now thick with a tense standoff. Haleid stood in the shadows, not following them, but watching their backs with a cold gaze. His silhouette stretched long in the shadow of the car door, like a blade hanging poised to fall.

Ganem didn't look back, but he keenly sensed the low rumble of an engine behind them. It didn't sound like any of the official vehicles; it sounded like a tracker from the depths of the desert. The noise was kept low, almost blending into the heat haze, but Ganem recognized it—a modified off-road engine, steady in its RPMs, clearly driven by someone trained.

Laila gripped her recording pen and whispered, "He's holding a grudge."

Ganem looked toward the distant, rolling dunes where the final secrets of the lost oasis lay hidden. The wind whipped up fine sand, drawing golden arcs across the ridges of the dunes.

"There are no secrets in the desert," he replied, "but secrets have guardians. Let's go. We have to find the next anchor point before night falls."

The engine sound gradually faded, but it didn't disappear; it lingered like a parasite in the heat waves. Ganem didn't look back, but his pace quickened. He knew the real fight had only just started.

Rounding a patch of scorched scrub, Ganem lowered his voice. "Don't stop, and don't look back. They're mapping our route."

Laila nodded, stuffing the pen into her bag and pressing her palm against the Compass to keep the needle steady against her. She whispered, "They won't follow too closely."

"They're waiting for dark," Ganem said.

The two of them quickened their pace, heading toward a dried-up riverbed to the north. The exposed gravel of the bed gleamed white, making their footprints stand out with stark clarity. Ganem suddenly stopped, pulled a water bladder from his pack, and splashed water next to the prints.

"Masking the scent," he explained briefly. "They have dogs."

Laila didn't ask questions. She opened the Compass; the needle shifted slightly, pointing toward a collapsed depression at the end of the riverbed. At the edge of the hollow stood an old derrick, rusted and wrapped in blackened rope.

"This is it," she said.

Ganem knelt and brushed away the drifting sand to reveal the mouth of a well. He aligned the Compass with the water, and the readings on the screen stabilized. He remained silent for a moment, then looked up at Laila.

"The purity is maxed out. But this water comes from the deep strata—it doesn't match Haleid's report at all."

Laila frowned. "Then why did he say the source was depleted?"

Ganem stood up and put away the Compass, his voice heavier than usual. "Because he wants to claim this area. Not for the water, but for what's buried beneath it."

He kicked away a cracked stone with his boot, revealing half of a metal plate embedded in the red soil, its edge engraved with a blurred serial number. Laila knelt and read it softly: "L-07."

Ganem didn't answer. He simply looked west. The sun was sinking, casting long shadows across the dunes. The engine noise returned, closer this time.

He whispered, "They're checking to see if we've entered the restricted zone. Let's move. We have to find the second anchor point before dark."

Laila nodded and covered the metal plate with sand. The two of them continued deeper into the dunes. Behind them, the engine noise stopped at the edge of the hollow, refusing to follow them in.