May 30, 2035

  Dmitry Medvedev attended a defense conference in Verkhoyansk, awestruck. Once a remote wasteland town, Verkhoyansk was hosting Russia’s largest defense conference for the first time. “(Russian) Impressive… Is this all thanks to Renya Group?” Newly inaugurated as president, Medvedev asked his aide, Andreyev, who nodded.

  “…In less than five years, Verkhoyansk grew from a 1,000-person village to a city of 900,000. At this rate, it’ll hit a million in five more.” Medvedev nodded. “…The power of the digestion engine, huh? Remarkable. Andreyev, as my aide, you should get a piece of this. I’m giving you development rights for this city. Make it thrive.” Andreyev bowed, secretly thrilled. At the conference’s center, Gamamusa, mingling with VIPs, spotted Medvedev and bowed.

  “(Russian) …Congratulations on your election, Your Excellency. I was about to greet you—your presence is an honor.” Medvedev waved it off. “Me? I’ll hand off the presidency in a few years. You’re the one who’ll make Russia great again.” Gamamusa smiled. “…Well, I aim to make the whole world great. I’ll leave Russia to you, Excellency.” Medvedev laughed, turning to Andreyev. “This guy’s got big dreams! UN Secretary-General next?” Andreyev gave a small smile, gesturing to Gamamusa, who flashed an OK sign.

  “…Actually, I have something to discuss, Excellency. I planned to tell our main shareholder, but circumstances changed.” Medvedev nodded, grabbing Gamamusa’s arm. “…I heard. Dmitry Grekov’s dead, right? Wanted to meet him, but… pity. I’ll pay my respects later. So, what’s on your mind?” Gamamusa pointed to a curtained area. “…Follow me. There’s a place reserved for our VIP investors.”

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  …

  April 18, 2035

  Splash. Kalkhan Tirak pushed a motorcycle into the sea at the harbor’s edge. Beside him, Dmitry Grekov smoked, removing his sunglasses. “…Phew, that was close. Passing an NIS car, of all things… Good thing Gamamusa warned me by phone.” Tirak took the sunglasses, pocketing them. Grekov tossed his cigarette, stomping it out. “…Wonder how my daughter’s doing. Can you call Gamamusa and check on her?” Tirak, now grasping some Russian, nodded and dialed Gamamusa. Soon, Olga’s voice came through. Grekov snatched the phone. “Hey, my girl! You doing okay? Everything fine there? Any creep bothering you, just say—I’ll sort him out.”

  Olga shouted over the phone. “Dad! This place sucks! Nothing but snow, mud, and cow dung smell! Take me to Brazil! I wanted to go!” Grekov scratched his head at her whining. “…Haha, my girl’s bored, huh? Gotta stay there, though. It’s too dangerous here. Got it?” Grumbling, Olga handed the phone to Gamamusa, who spoke. “…Things are tricky here. Some of our ‘Pilgrims’ mercenaries’ wiretaps in the East Sea’s communication lines were found. The NIS is sending agents to hunt me down, likely some to your side too. Their goal is to cut our funding. As our main shareholder, you’re the target.” Grekov frowned. “…Just passed an NIS car, actually. What should I do?” He wasn’t prepared for the answer. “Fake your death. Your daughter’s clean of corruption charges. Transfer your wealth and stocks to her, and the NIS will have no grounds to touch her.”

  https://m.novel.naver.com/challenge/detail?novelId=1180586&volumeNo=81#nafullscreen