Chapter Two In Truth, I Am a Warrior of a Hundred Clans!

A massive skull of a ram was vividly inked across the man’s back, every bone rendered with such precision that even the faintest glint of coldness seemed to radiate from it, as if the skull itself were alive. Twining through the seven orifices of the ram’s skull was a large, grey-brown serpent, its mouth agape to reveal sharp fangs—this was the Black Mamba, one of the world’s eight deadliest snakes, hailed across Africa as the Reaper incarnate, the most legendary and feared of all serpents. The enormous ram’s skull, meanwhile, drew its origin from an ancient African tribal myth.

In the tribes of Africa, it is believed that the world and mankind were created by the Sky Father, Mawuliza. After completing this grand act of creation, Mawuliza grew weary, and so divided all things among his children to govern. His second son, Hevide Ozo, was fierce and hot-tempered; thus, Mawuliza made him the God of Thunder. Hevide Ozo would often transform into a great ram, leaping amidst the clouds. When at peace, he brought timely rain to nurture crops and trees; when enraged, he summoned storms, lightning, and slaughtered the living, destroying homes, trees, and fields. The rolling thunder was his furious roar, intent on annihilating everything—even the eggs of lizards, pythons, and crocodiles, hidden deep in their nests, would be shattered by his wrath. To punish such ferocity, the Sky Father severed his head, making him the headless god, and hoisted the ram’s skull high upon the divine platform as a warning to all gods.

What truly struck terror into the terrorists was not merely the legend, but the reality: in African tribes, only true warriors may bear the Black Mamba tattoo, while the ram’s skull is a sacred totem, protecting the tribe and warding off evil. Such a tattoo could only be worn by the Warrior of All Tribes.

The title “Warrior of All Tribes” does not mean “one of a hundred,” but rather signifies the mightiest man among all the tribes of Africa, including South Africa. There may be many tribal warriors, but at any one time, there is only one Warrior of All Tribes.

Africa is home to thousands of tribes, ranging from hundreds to tens of thousands in number. Each tribe is led by a chief, whose commands are strictly followed. Yet, the Warrior of All Tribes stands above them all, respected and revered by every tribe, chiefs included. In some respects, his authority even exceeds that of a head of state; he is the embodiment of courage and strength, the messenger of the gods, the guardian of all tribes.

“Aluya~!”
“Aluya~!”

Suddenly, seven or eight black men knelt in the cabin, shouting fervently towards Wang Zheng, their eyes ablaze with fanatical devotion.

This was a rallying cry from a South African tribe—a call to the gods.

“Hehehe!” Wang Zheng turned to glance at the terrorists behind him, whose faces had turned ashen, and sneered in Zulu, “Let’s go. Take me to your leader.”

To oppose the Warrior of All Tribes is to stand against every tribe in Africa, to challenge Death itself. Without this tattoo, Wang Zheng would never have returned home; he had endured eight long years in Africa for the sake of this mark, and he had no desire to ever return to that accursed land.

The terrorists exchanged glances, the fear in their eyes unmistakable—fear born of both power and faith. For those who worship the gods, disrespecting the Warrior of All Tribes was blasphemy and would surely invite divine retribution.

One of them, still kneeling, shouted a few words to Wang Zheng, then rose and led him towards the cockpit. Wang Zheng shrugged, donned his vest, and called out to the kneeling men, who replied in unison before standing and resuming their seats. No trace of fear remained in their eyes—only newfound confidence.

As he walked, Wang Zheng conversed with the terrorist escort, and in just a few sentences, he gleaned the gist of their plan: they were a South African anti-government faction, intending to hijack the plane to force the release of their imprisoned comrades.

They had inside men at the airport, smuggling weapons aboard and seizing the cockpit from the moment of takeoff. From the very start, the cabin had been under their armed control.

Entering the cockpit, Wang Zheng saw a black man holding a submachine gun, his expression puzzled as he recognized one of his own and an unfamiliar face. This man was apparently the leader of the operation, a South African who had once lived in China.

The escort whispered a few words into his ear before stepping aside.

“You… are you truly the Warrior of All Tribes?” the black man asked in halting Mandarin, surprise written all over his face. His plan had been thorough, but never had he imagined the Warrior of All Tribes would be on this very plane—let alone a Chinese man.

“In Africa, who would dare impersonate the Warrior of All Tribes?” Wang Zheng replied with a smile. “I know why you’ve hijacked this plane, and I sympathize with your imprisoned brothers. But your methods are wrong. Resorting to such base tactics as hostage-taking is beneath you—even the gods would scorn you. If I were you, I’d break them out myself—if anyone stands in my way, I’d deal with them, but I would never drag innocents into this. Understand?”

“Is this the will of the gods?” the man asked, looking intently at Wang Zheng.

Wang Zheng laughed again, stripping off his vest to reveal the fearsome head of Hevide Ozo, the Thunder God, and the Black Mamba, the Reaper’s serpent.

“This is the will of the gods. Do you wish to defy them? Or do you believe your organization can stand against all the tribes of Africa?”

The man hesitated, suspicion in his eyes. For thousands of years, the Warrior of All Tribes had always been African, and the man before him looked nothing of the sort.

Suddenly, Wang Zheng reached out with his left hand and seized the man’s submachine gun, while his right hand clamped viciously around his throat.

A crisp snap—before anyone could react, the man’s neck was broken, his head lolling lifelessly. In the blink of an eye, one hand had snuffed out a life.

“The Black Mamba—the swiftest, deadliest killer in Africa,” Wang Zheng said, letting the corpse drop as he turned to the remaining terrorist, who stared in terror, weapon trembling. “He has been punished by the gods. Do you wish the same fate?” he demanded in Zulu.

“Aluya~!” The man instantly dropped his gun, knelt, and chanted his tribe’s rallying cry over and over.

“Excellent,” Wang Zheng nodded in satisfaction. In the tribes of Africa, the Warrior of All Tribes is a guardian deity, free to punish any who defy him. Outsiders might call it brutality, but among the tribes, obedience to the gods is the highest law—this is faith. In some ways, the tribes’ reverence for the Warrior of All Tribes is even more devout and fervent than Christians’ worship of Jesus.

“Continue to Beijing as scheduled. Do not alert the authorities. I’ll handle everything on board. Understood?” Wang Zheng addressed the two pilots.

“Yes… yes, sir!”

“Good,” Wang Zheng smiled, hoisting the dead man and heading back to the cabin.

When he reappeared, corpse in hand, the other black men in the cabin took immediate notice. The terrorist who had followed Wang Zheng explained in a torrent of words: the dead man had blasphemed the gods and suffered the wrath of the great Hevide Ozo; the arrival of the Warrior of All Tribes was a sign that the gods themselves would lead them forward.

Hearing this, the others instantly dropped their weapons, knelt, and shouted, “Aluya!” at the top of their lungs.

Wang Zheng nodded in satisfaction, then turned to the flight attendant, “Prepare five parachutes.”

“Yes, sir!”

Wang Zheng handed the parachutes to the five terrorists, then stepped into the cockpit and said to the captain, “Descend to the lowest possible altitude and maintain around three thousand meters—some passengers wish to disembark.”

The captain complied, lowering the plane’s altitude and speed. The aircraft slanted downward, breaking through the clouds, revealing the patchwork of gray and green earth below.

Fighting the roaring wind, Wang Zheng forced the cabin door open and tossed the corpse out. He turned to the five terrorists, already strapped into their parachutes, and shouted in Zulu, “May the gods protect you!”

“Aluya! Aluya!”

“Jump!” Wang Zheng barked impatiently. “This wind is messing up my hair!”

The terrorists understood: if they didn’t jump now, they’d be arrested the moment the plane landed. Bracing against the gale, they stepped to the door, glanced at the earth below, and leapt.

One, two, three, four—one after another, four parachutes blossomed in the sky like flowers.

The fifth terrorist spread his arms in devotion, shouting, “A… A—!”

“Enough of that!” Before he could finish the chant, Wang Zheng kicked him out the door. Dealing with terrorists was more trouble than it was worth!

With a slam, Wang Zheng shut the door. The plane leveled out, gained altitude, and resumed its course.

A roar of cheers erupted through the cabin, and as Wang Zheng walked back from the door, applause broke out spontaneously. Eyes shone with admiration—even if few knew who he truly was, all could see the awe he inspired in the terrorists. Only the black men, perhaps, truly understood the significance of what had occurred.