White Country
Dust billowed, the sun blazed, and the ragged farmers and shepherds stared vacantly from afar at the source of the engine sounds.
At the end of the bumpy dirt road, a caravan of trucks, covered in rust and welding scars, slowly approached, with the leading vehicle presenting credentials at the masked soldiers' checkpoint.
Amidst the static in the radio, the rough barricades were moved aside, but unfortunately, the wind did not carry that weary chanting to set the mood.
Beyond the checkpoint and the valley, the tunnel's end was not the dry and sandy exterior world, but a serene gem-like lake, surrounded by recently built simple houses, bustling and noisy.
The truck convoy drove straight in and parked beside the village, and the young man at the front jumped down lightly, removing the sunglasses from his face.
He walked up, unconcerned by the people searching him, and glanced around: "Who is Mr. Inaya?"
"It's me."
