Mercenaries, I Will Be King Chapter 1342 - 1135: Conferral of Honors

The afternoon of the next day.

At the appointed ti, a black rcedes S600 Pullman bulletproof sedan silently glided to the villa's doorstep.

Song Heping donned a brand new desert-colored digital camouflage combat uniform and shaved his beard clean.

The Chef also tidied himself up as best as he could, wearing his best casual attire.

The car smoothly exited the estate and rged into the slightly sparse afternoon traffic of Damascus.

Song Heping silently observed this ancient city, with four thousand years of history, through the dark bulletproof windows.

In 2014, Damascus exuded an extrely complex and indescribable atmosphere.

Pedestrians and vehicles continued to flow on the streets, so shops stubbornly remained open for business, and even in the Old Town's cafes, a few elderly folks could be seen leisurely smoking water pipes, trying to maintain the fragile semblance of a leisurely life from before the war.

But none of this could conceal the deep scars left by war—the ubiquitous military checkpoints, the fortifications made of sandbags and steel plates, and the faces of pedestrians unable to fully hide their fatigue, tension, and a numbness resigned to fate.

The large posters on the streets, featuring portraits of President Hafez, depicted by the artist with eyes steadfast and full of strength, trying to convey a ssage of unyielding confidence to the anxious populace.

The car passed through a lush, heavily guarded upscale community, eventually driving into a large compound guarded by multiple heavy steel checkpoints and heavily ard soldiers.

This is the true power center of the Syria Republic—the Presidential Residence.

After a security check more stringent and complicated than any airport inspection, even employing soldiers with handheld chemical detectors to sample the car, it was finally allowed to pass, slowly driving into the internal parking lot.

The sight in the parking lot made Song Heping's gaze involuntarily pause slightly.

It was practically a miniature exhibition of top luxury cars: the latest rcedes S-class guard car, Lexus LX570, Rolls-Royce Phantom, Bentley Mulsanne, Porsche Cayenne Turbo...

A variety of extrely valuable top luxury cars sat quietly in reserved parking spaces like ta beasts.

This contrasted so absurdly, glaringly, and suffocatingly with the war-torn, economically collapsed, and peoples' livelihoods devastated nation, where countless civilians were displaced outside.

Song Heping felt an uncomfortable sensation rise within.

This is the naked epito of the Siria regi.

An elite ruling group core focused on the Alawite minority, controlling the vast majority of the nation's wealth, leading a shattered country deeply entrenched in sectarian killings, foreign intervention, and a quagmire of suffering.

Old Hafez, the "strong father" who rose from poverty through a military coup, ruled this nation with an iron fist and secret police for thirty years, deeply entangling family and faction interests with the state machinery, creating a massive military-comrcial complex.

His son, Hafez, the reluctant heir forced to abandon dicine for politics, inherited this vast and heavy, yet extrely unfair legacy.

The enormous inequality of wealth, political oppression, and deep sectarian conflicts served as perfect soil for external forces to intervene, ultimately igniting this nationwide bloodshed civil war which claid hundreds of thousands of lives.

A Presidential Guard officer, whose epaulets displayed a high rank, led the two through the empty corridors without expression.

The marble floors were so polished they were reflective, echoing the sounds of footsteps.

They were taken into a chamber decorated with solemnity and elegance.

The Siria flag and Presidential standard stood in the most conspicuous spot, the crimson carpet, and dark wooden paneling all exuded a formal sense of national power.

Shortly, a side door opened, and President Hafez Assad entered surrounded by senior officials and bodyguards dressed in suits or military uniforms.

He appeared more weary and thin than on TV and posters, ears graying, deep bags under his eyes, and a worried deanor.

Just like the legends say.

Song Heping thought that this man looked less like a career politician, more like a slightly cultured professional.

Of course, this was related to his background—

Originally studying ophthalmology in London, harboring ambitions of helping others in need, graduating to beco a distinguished doctor was his life plan.

Perhaps he never imagined having to take over this weather-beaten country.

It was simply destiny playing a huge joke on him.

His beloved elder brother, grood to be the successor, died in a strange car accident, forcing him to be urgently recalled from Britain by his father, rushed to power, undergoing a series of harsh political and military training.

A successor forced to abandon the scalpel for the scepter, initially regarded with skepticism by all sides, yet unexpectedly showed resilience amid the storm tearing the country apart, not choosing to flee when the civil war erupted, and incredibly, still holding firm control of the key regions in the west, which in itself was a miracle.

The award ceremony was brief yet grand.

President Hafez personally took a heavy Gold Star dal, encrusted with dazzling rubies and gold—the "Hero of Siria" award—from the velvet cushion carried by an attendant and pinned it onto Song Heping's chest.

Then, he pinned another one on the Chef's chest.

He gave a short speech, his voice steady and powerful, highly praising the "extraordinary courage, outstanding skills, and selfless friendship towards the people of Siria" that they exhibited during the nation's toughest tis, stating that they were "true friends, heroes that Siria will never forget."