Chapter 2: Market Watch: The Old Powers Stir

"You're too slow, Sheikh."

The blood-red text on the screen hadn't even faded before Qasim's fingertips brushed the Black Gold Sand crystal. The cold was bone-deep, like holding a heart on the verge of exploding; the chill surged through his veins, racing toward his fingertips and making his heart skip a beat.

Rashid possessed absolute power, yet in this moment, he could only watch this irrational object in silence. An oppressive, dead stillness filled the air. Qasim flipped his phone face-down in his palm, the warmth of his skin absorbed by the freezing screen. Using the restless energy of the eve of Ramadan as cover, he stood up and began walking toward the Old City of Muscat.

The clues from his dreams were like silken threads, pulling him through the scorching sun in pursuit of a strange, lingering scent of spices. With every step, the friction of his soles against the burning stone slabs reminded him that time was being devoured.

Sara blended into the crowd in her finest attire, her deep purple abaya blooming like a flower amidst the masses. Her eyes scanned the impending deals with greed, shifting like a viper. In her flamboyant manner, she tapped the phone at her waist—a careless gesture that nearly gave her away, completely out of sync with the cautious atmosphere of the surrounding trades.

Qasim remained composed. His gaze seemed distant, but he was using his peripheral vision to capture every micro-expression on Sara's face. Using the date trades to close the intelligence loop, he confirmed the exact coordinates of the Black Gold Sand while secretly noting the black shadow of Rashid's security detail looming behind her. That shadow was like a net, slowly tightening.

Zaid followed close behind, his pace restrained and precise. His legalistic composure masked his purpose of surveillance, each step carefully calculated to stay within the blind spots of the old merchant's vision.

When the old merchant saw Qasim, he didn't stand. He simply rubbed the edge of a clay jar with rough fingers, deep brown soil embedded under his nails. He refused to utter a single word regarding the deep-layer minerals.

In the shadows behind him, the black silhouettes of Rashid's security team flickered. Those figures remained as still as ghosts—a silent pressure of power that made the surrounding noise seem insignificant.

Qasim hurried through the gloom. A copper plate pressed against his chest, freezing cold, yet it gave him a strange sense of peace. That Totem Key didn't just point to the mine; it pointed to the very lifeline of Muscat's underground network.

His mind raced, piecing together the fragments of his dreams: the "collusion with foreign investors" the old merchant mentioned wasn't a simple monetary transaction, but a permanent surrender of mining rights. Once the Black Gold Sand fell under total foreign control, the city's economic lifeline would no longer be in local hands.

Sara didn't follow. She stood her ground, letting the night wind brush her cheeks, bringing the salty scent of the distant sea. With an elegant, hidden motion, she drew a slender metal rod from the inside of her coat. This was proof that she was the family's sharpest blade, and currently, her greatest liability.

If Qasim escaped, the location of the Black Gold Sand would fall into the hands of greedy foreign conglomerates. The layout Uncle Rashid had painstakingly built over thirty years would collapse in an instant, and she would become the scapegoat.

These words hit the old merchant's already fragile nerves like a sledgehammer. A flash of murderous intent and despair crossed his eyes—not directed at Zaid, but at the crumbling situation. Trembling, his bark-like fingers reached into the bottom of a date crate. After groping through the black shadows for a moment, he pushed a copper plate engraved with a tribal totem to the bottom.

The copper plate was rusted and its edges were sharp. It was the primitive key to the Black Gold Sand mine, worth far more than all the gold coins in the world, and far more than a single human life.

Inside the freight corridor, Sara finally spotted the taillights of the white sedan. She let out a cold laugh and ignited the engine, the roar of the SUV tearing through the silence of the night. She didn't chase him toward the alley entrance; instead, she drove toward the massive industrial port on the other side of the city.

There, a freighter waited to transport the "cargo." And Rashid was standing on the deck, waiting for her to bring back the result—or a copper plate.

"Since you won't behave, I'll 'correct' you myself," Sara whispered, turning toward the shadows on the other side of the alley. A modified black SUV sat there, its engine humming like a sleeping beast. She didn't charge directly into the alley where Qasim had vanished; she circled around to the freight corridor behind the market.

The area was piled high with unexported spice crates and empty wooden barrels—a blind spot for surveillance and the perfect place for an assassination.

Qasim didn't stop. Instead, at the moment of approach, he flicked a coin into the air. The coin spun, reflecting the dim yellow light of the streetlamps. As he stepped aside, the coin precisely struck the communicator behind the lead agent's ear, causing one of them to momentarily lose balance.

Qasim used the momentum to roll into a pile of junk in an abandoned roadside teahouse. His heart hammered like a drum, but he maintained that gentle, detached smile on his face.

"Yes, I understand," Sara said softly into her blacked-out phone. Her voice was terrifyingly calm, yet it couldn't hide the undercurrents churning in her heart. She hung up, her gaze locking onto the silhouette disappearing deep into the alley like a hawk.

Qasim's footsteps gradually faded on the stone path. They weren't heavy; they possessed an eerie lightness, as if he already knew exactly where every step was leading.

He knew Rashid's layout was far more airtight than he had imagined. Sara was merely bait; the real killing zone had already been set at the alley mouth. He needed time; he needed the "third party" the old merchant mentioned to appear.

The blurred figure from his dreams emerged again: a man in a traditional robe, holding an ancient astrolabe, standing at the entrance of the Black Gold Sand mine, whispering, "The time has come, Qasim."

Meanwhile, on the port deck, Rashid watched the approaching vehicles, a cruel curve touching his lips. The cigar in his hand burned out, a spark landing on the deck with a faint pop. He raised his satellite phone and dialed an encrypted number, his voice low: "The goods aren't in hand, but the net is cast. Prepare Plan B. Sink that freighter; leave no bodies."

Qasim withdrew his gaze, his fingertips touching the cold copper plate. He tucked it away with a fluidity that suggested he had rehearsed the move a thousand times. He gave the observers a gentle smile—one that even carried a hint of apology and humility—while he had already used the dream fragments to predict the assassination trap Sara was about to spring.

He could see the tension in the air; he could see the exact moment Sara's finger would pull the trigger.

Rashid's voice cut off abruptly, leaving only the faint hiss of static in the receiver, like a viper spitting in her ear. Sara gripped the phone so hard her knuckles turned white, the purplish veins stark against her pale skin. She didn't dare hang up, nor did she dare let go, as if that cold threat was the only thing keeping her upright.

The wind blew in from the sea, carrying a damp, rotting smell. Hiding behind the junk pile, Qasim looked through a broken window and saw the headlights of cars leaving the port, streaking through the darkness like meteors. He touched the copper plate in his pocket, his fingertips cool. The situation had evolved beyond a simple manhunt; this was a high-stakes gamble involving the future of the entire region.

Suddenly, a short screech of brakes echoed from the alley entrance. Two beams of intense light pierced the dark as a white sedan blocked the path. The doors flew open, and three men in black tactical vests jumped out, armed with suppressed pistols. They were Rashid's hounds, planted in the city—faster and colder than Sara.

Qasim wasn't in a rush to question them. He pulled a parchment contract from his inner coat pocket, the edges curled with age, the yellowed ink smelling of antiquity. He unfolded the contract slowly and elegantly, his tone peaceful yet carrying an unquestionable weight, his voice clear even amidst the noise of the market.

A flicker of emotion crossed the old merchant's clouded eyes, like a stone thrown into still water—the ripple was small but spread quickly. He took a deep breath of the scent of dried dates filling the air—a complex aroma of burnt sweetness and slight bitterness. His expression finally softened, the corners of his mouth dipping into a barely perceptible, bitter smile.

He took a deep breath and climbed out from the junk pile. Instead of fleeing deeper into the city, he walked straight toward the teahouse at the market entrance that still had its lights on. The owner was an old man blind in one eye, his gaze clouded but shrewd. Qasim pushed the door open and ordered a pot of the lowest-grade mint tea.

A flash of sharpness appeared in the old man's clouded eyes. He didn't touch the gold coins; he simply nodded slowly and pushed a crumpled nautical chart across the counter. On the map, besides the port's location, there was an inconspicuous red dot with a tiny dagger drawn beside it.

Rashid issued a cold warning from the other end, his voice coming through the receiver with an authority that brooked no defiance, threatening Sara that if she dared betray the family's interests, all her assets would vanish overnight—a whisper from hell.

While Rashid's warning still echoed in her ears, Qasim had already turned and stepped into the dim alley. The noise behind him was cut off by high stone walls, and the light vanished abruptly, leaving only a sliver of glow at the end of the alley to light his way.

Layla stood by a stall organizing geological maps, the sunlight hitting the transparent overlays in her hands and refracting into dazzling spots of light. Her calm voice pierced the noise, devoid of emotion but possessing a metallic hardness.

Zaid forced his way in, leaning forward and breaking the original balance. He pushed up the glasses on the bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting a cold light, using legal clauses to intimidate the old merchant. His voice wasn't loud, but every word hit like a nail.

"Boss," Qasim placed a few gold coins on the table, his voice so low only the old man could hear, "I'm looking for someone. An old man who always stands at the end of the port, staring blankly at the currents."

At that exact moment, Sara dialed the phone, her voice trembling as she reported to Rashid, her tone laced with an irrepressible mix of jealousy and fear—the anxiety of a hunter realizing the prey had escaped.

The old merchant's voice was low and raspy, like gravel rolling in his throat. He shifted his body, trying to avoid the gaze of those black silhouettes, his eyes betraying deep exhaustion and terror.

Her gaze swept over the mountains of brownish-tan fruit, as if she were reading a code written into the geological strata.

"The specific metallic ion residue in aged dates is the fingerprint of the high-purity Black Gold Sand vein."

"The wind is blowing hard outside. Someone in the family is colluding with foreign investors, trying to bypass the Patriarch to annex the northern vein."

"The target got the key... no, he's too cunning. I have to move now."

"Habibi, I'm willing to pay ten times the market price for this batch of century-old dates."

"According to Chamber of Commerce regulations, private transfers of exploration rights are invalid."

Hanging up the phone, Rashid looked toward the glittering skyline of Muscat. There was no anger in his eyes, only cold calculation. The struggle for the Black Gold Sand had only just begun, and the scent of blood was already thick in the air.