I was a prince in the Middle East

Chapter 15 You Want to Risk Your Life? I'm Leisurely Eating Snacks
A giant crystal chandelier cast a hazy, ambiguous golden light, illuminating the inner hall as if it were a decadent, intoxicating den of iniquity.

On the expensive Persian carpet, a priceless silk robe and a gossamer-thin dress were half-undone, revealing skin as smooth as cream, which glowed with a honey-colored luster under the light and shadow refracted by candlelight and crystal.

The woman's sweet, coquettish laughter, the man's unrestrained growls, and the frenzied rhythm of Arabic drums...

A near-manic, apocalyptic atmosphere permeated the air, as if to incinerate all reason and hope in this sea of ​​extravagant desire.

The outer hall, separated by just one door, had an atmosphere as frozen as a sword tomb.

The cold air from the central air conditioning swept by silently, but it couldn't dispel the somber atmosphere hanging over everyone's shoulders.

The chief stewards of the Seven Kingdoms of Sudri...

These hawk-like figures, representing the will of the kingdom's core power structure, did not take their seats.

They stood silently before the floor-to-ceiling windows like black stones in an ancient desert, their cold gazes piercing through the reinforced glass and fixed on the distant runway.

The powerful figures from the nine border tribes occupied corners or sofas.

They sat or leaned, mostly with their eyelids lowered, their fingers unconsciously twirling the rough sandalwood or obsidian prayer beads on their wrists, as calm as sand dunes frozen before a storm.

The air was so tense you could almost hear the dust settling on the ground.

Only occasionally would a waiter in a white robe glide silently across the thick carpet like a ghost, whisper a few words in the ear of a steward or tribal elder, and then quickly disappear into the shadows of a corner.

Each whisper added a chill to the invisible pressure around them.

At this intersection of ice and fire, the group of three young princes stands out conspicuously beside a small round table covered with an exquisitely hand-embroidered tablecloth.

Muhammad leaned back in the large wicker chair, his eyes lowered.

No one knows whether beneath those tightly closed eyelids lies a turbulent power struggle or a suppressed storm.

He placed his hands together in front of his lower abdomen, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force.

In stark contrast to him was Walid.

At this moment, Walid was very relaxed, picking up a dark brown, plump, and shiny date and slowly putting it into his mouth.

Gently bite through the resilient outer skin, and the thick, honey-like syrup inside melts instantly on your tongue, carrying a unique, mellow flavor that comes from the sun-baked earth.

He squinted slightly, thoroughly enjoying the pure pleasure of the taste.

Then, he picked up the small, exquisite Arabic coffee cup in front of him, inlaid with blue enamel patterns.

The liquid in the glass was as black as ink, and a rich aroma with the unique spiciness of cardamom rose gently from it.

He took a small sip, and the scalding bitterness instantly assaulted his taste buds, perfectly balancing the sweetness of the dates and creating a unique harmony.

I picked up a small piece of Kunafa sprinkled with pistachio crumbs. The golden crust crackled softly against my fingertips, releasing a rich aroma of butter and cheese.

He put it in his mouth, chewed it carefully, and felt the complex taste of crispness, smoothness, and saltiness blending and exploding in his mouth.

This is life!
Deep within Walid's consciousness, a satisfied sigh rang out silently.

In my past life, spending time in the dorm with Raleigh and cuddling was considered like celebrating the New Year. Could that be called life?

That's just...survival at best!
Look at this table in front of you!
A dazzling array of traditional Saudi desserts: fluffy mamor, baklava coated in coconut flakes, kunafa sprinkled with pistachio crumbs, glistening dates...

Every bite is a testament to history, a testament to the richness of this land…

Or rather, the most luxurious gift of a land overflowing with wealth.

His gaze swept seemingly unintentionally over the small tables in the hall that were also piled high with exquisite pastries.

Nobody cares.

These people... what a waste of talent!
Walid rolled his eyes inwardly.

How much manpower and resources did it take to prepare such a large meal? How much effort did the cooks put into it?

The results of it?
Most of them have to be dumped into the trash can intact!
Doesn't their God, Allah, teach people to cherish food and oppose waste?
These guys have some kind of evil God's commandments in their hearts!
Which of those absurd things that happened in the inner hall conformed to the doctrine?
They were all incredibly devout when they prayed, but when they let loose, they were more unrestrained than anyone else.

Walid scoffed inwardly, filled with contempt for these "devout" princes.

I'm not as devout as you!

Well, there's nothing we can do about it; he's become a complete theist.

Otherwise, he would not be able to explain his time travel.

Walid ate with focused concentration and seriousness.

Enjoy this delicious food, enjoy this power, enjoy this... life blessed by the gods!
As for whether those who waste food will be punished?
A playful smile curved his lips.

Who knows?

Perhaps God's reckoning has already begun in another dimension.

And all he needs to focus on is the cup of coffee in front of him, the plate of pastries, and...

How should we plan for the next, even more exciting "game"?

Turki, standing next to him, was not in the same good mood.

He was on pins and needles, his face filled with anxiety and barely suppressed curiosity.

He rubbed his hands together, leaned forward slightly, and glanced back and forth between Muhammad, who was resting with his eyes closed, and Walid, who was intently enjoying his snack, several times.

Finally, Turki lowered his voice and approached Walid with what he thought was a secretive, lewd manner.

"Hey bro, what's going on?"

He gestured with his lip towards the silent, standing stewards and tribal leaders, lowering his voice even further, almost a whisper.
"Isn't this a huge show of force? Is the sky about to fall? Is it because of Father...?"

He made a vague gesture, his eyes filled with a mixture of awe and unease.

Seeing that Walid simply picked up another date and seemed not to intend to answer immediately, Turki's brows furrowed even more.

He scooted forward again, almost pressing himself against Walid, and lowered his voice even further.

"That bet...it's a tie! You both bet, and so much at that! Wasn't that..."

He winked, giving a knowing yet inquisitive smile. "Do you know any inside information? A sure win?"

Muhammad remained motionless, not even lifting his eyelids, as if he were lost in thought, completely blocking out all the noise around him.

Walid finally swallowed the date in his mouth, picked up his coffee and took another sip, before slowly turning his face to look at Turki.

He did not immediately answer Turki's question about the inside story, but simply turned slightly to the side.

His buttocks moved silently half an inch away from Turki on the chair.

"What's the rush, bro? You'll know everything in a little while, won't you?"

Walid's voice wasn't loud, but his eyes suggested that the guy should look around before speaking.

You have no brains!
Okay, what he really meant was, "You gay bastard! Stay away from me!"

Turki's lewd smile froze instantly.

He opened his mouth, as if to say something.

However, after glancing at the silent, statue-like figures in the outer hall who exuded an invisible pressure, he ultimately swallowed his words.

He leaned back in his chair dejectedly, picked up his now-cold coffee, and took a big gulp, trying to hide his unease.

The bitter, cold liquid slid down his throat, making him shiver.

He certainly understood what "we'll know in a little while" meant.

The fact that these powerful figures, who are rarely seen in ordinary times, are all here is a huge event in itself.

It is absolutely the harbinger of a storm powerful enough to shake the very foundations of the kingdom.

Good news? Absolutely not.

He subconsciously touched his chin, and the little bit of relief that had risen in his heart from betting on a draw resurfaced.

With the additional $20 million that Walid added for him, the total is $30 million!

This is no small sum; even for a prince like him, it would be enough to make him feel the pinch for a long time.

Now it seems likely that this money will be wasted...

I'm afraid it's not low at all.

But then I thought, at least he took sides.

Moreover, they stood firmly on the side of Muhammad and Walid from the very beginning!
That is, they stood on the side of the mainstream will of the kingdom.

For Turki, this was an unprecedentedly brilliant decision.

Thinking of this, his heartache seemed to lessen a little.

As for Muhammad's silence?
Turki glanced at his brother, who was sitting beside him like a meditating monk, and subtly curled the corner of his mouth.

A familiar feeling welled up inside me, a mixture of helplessness and a faint resentment.

envy?

He knew all too well the deep-seated jealousy his older brother harbored towards him, hidden beneath the facade of brotherly affection.

Just because of her mother's undisguised favoritism?
Just because of that damned "inheritance law for the youngest legitimate son"?
What can Turki do?
He was neither the one who created those outdated rules, nor did he have the ability to persuade his mother to change her mind.

Moreover, what's the point of all this arguing?
In his view, everything was nonsense until his father actually sat in that supreme position.

Weren't he and his five brothers, who lost their right to inherit the throne entirely because of their mother's death, a bloody lesson from the past?

Besides, his father's position as crown prince only fell to him because his two uncles who were ranked ahead of him died one after another.

In particular, former Crown Prince Nayef Sr. passed away at the age of 77, and his father is also 77 this year.

In Turki's view, anything was possible and anything could be overturned before his father took office.

Explain? He scoffed inwardly, why waste his breath.

He turned his gaze back to the starting line of the track in the distance.

The passage of time seems to have been given a viscous weight at this moment.

The drumbeats in the inner hall seemed to strike at people's hearts, while the silence in the outer hall was like a noose that was tightening.

No one wants this moment to be delayed.

Whether it's Bandar awaiting trial or the hunters waiting to reap the harvest.

Finally, the huge, antique gold clock hanging on the wall, inlaid with various gemstones, pointed to the mark with its intricately crafted brass hands indicating that there were only thirty minutes left before the start of the game.

A deep, drawn-out chime, like the last notes of a death knell, pierced through the noise of the inner hall.

Prince Bandar pushed away the limbs wrapped around him and casually wiped the lipstick stains from the corner of his mouth.

The hazy, unrestrained smile on his face instantly switched, as if he were wearing an impeccable mask, overflowing with exaggerated enthusiasm and excitement.

He strode to the center of the inner hall, clapped his hands forcefully a few times, his voice so loud it was almost distorted:
"Distinguished princes! Friends! It's time! Let's move to the track!"

Let's cheer for our big toy with the loudest cheers!
The moment to witness a miracle is about to arrive!

His voice was like a powerful stimulant, instantly igniting the already heated atmosphere in the inner hall.

The young princes and tycoons, who had been indulging in pleasure, suddenly awoke from their reverie and erupted in even more frenzied cheers and whistles.

Like a flock of colorful birds being driven away, they swarmed around Prince Bandar, noisily rushing towards the door leading from the inner hall to the viewing platform.

The previous tense atmosphere?
That oppressive atmosphere emanating from the outer hall?

The celebratory atmosphere created by Bandar and the attention of these onlookers who only care about immediate thrills have long been forgotten.

Is the sky falling down?

Of course, there's someone as "tall" as Prince Bandar to shoulder the burden.

They were just participants having fun, what big mistake could they possibly make?
The law does not blame everyone.

Is there something wrong with the betting?
Of course they know.

The collective bet by the powerful royal family and the nine tribes was itself the most powerful form of opposition.

But so what?
Prince Bandar continued to do as he pleased and keep opening the market, didn't he?

This precisely demonstrates that he is fearless and has nothing to fear!
If even princes aren't afraid, what are those who follow along and bet for a little profit afraid of?
The restless crowd surged toward the outer hall.

As these elegantly dressed onlookers, reeking of perfume and alcohol and displaying excited expressions, passed through the cedar wood door separating the two worlds, the solemn outer hall rippled silently, like a frozen lake tossed with a pebble.

The head stewards' cold gazes swept over these "entertainers".

The leaders of the nine tribes were mostly expressionless, their eyes filled with undisguised contempt, as if watching a flock of foolish lambs headed to the slaughterhouse.

But this silent pressure lasted only a moment before being drowned out by louder laughter and footsteps.

The crowd surged toward the huge viewing platform, which offered a panoramic view overlooking the entire runway.

Amid the chaos of the moving crowd, a whispered but penetrating rumor, like the most cunning venomous snake in the desert, quietly spread in the area near the viewing platform.

It was whispered from a waiter as he poured coffee for a little prince, passed to the ears of a businessman adjusting his headscarf, and then quickly spread to several well-informed brokers.

"Have you heard? Prince Bandar has truly been driven to the brink this time..."

A middle-aged man dressed in an elegant gold-trimmed robe covered his mouth with his hand and whispered to his companion beside him, his eyes darting around.

"Goldman Sachs...yes, that Goldman Sachs! They set him up in a huge scheme in the shale oil acquisition deal!"

Another bald businessman spoke up, his voice low and gloating.

"We've already invested tens of billions of US dollars, and it looks like it's all going down the drain!"

"April 30th! Only a few days left! If we can't come up with the $15 billion equity transfer payment, all the money we've already invested will be wasted!"

"Borrow? Who should we borrow from? Who in China would dare to lend to us?"
Who doesn't know that shale oil is digging up Saudi Arabia's roots?
International capital? Hmph, what decent collateral does Prince Bandar have left that would even catch their eye?

"So, having no other options, we had no choice but to turn to the UAE..."

"The conditions offered by those hyenas in the UAE... tsk tsk, Crescent Island in the Red Sea! A mortgage! Plus 20 years of free use!"

Saudi Arabia and the UAE have no historical grievances, as the UAE was only established in 1974.

But before the UAE emerged, and even before the founding of Saudi Arabia, the tribes on both sides were locked in a life-or-death struggle.

Then, due to Britain's consistent meddling, the same family and the same oasis were divided in two by "national borders"...

"How is this any different from treason?! Crescent Island! It's deep in the Red Sea!"
"Once the UAE gets their hands on the hyenas, they can just hand it over to the remnants of the usurper (the Zionians) to set up a radar station there, and our entire kingdom's heartland will be exposed!"

"So... that's why Prince Bandar set up this betting scheme as a fig leaf... nominally he 'lost' to a member of the UAE royal family, but actually..."

"Hmph! It's too late to call a halt now! Crescent Island is Prince Bandar's private territory, and theoretically, no one can interfere with how he decides to dispose of it!"

"No wonder...no wonder the royal family and those tribes collectively bet on a 'draw'! This is clearly an expression of opposition! It's putting pressure on Bandar!"

"What a pity, His Highness the Prince isn't buying it! The bet is still on!"

I think the result was predetermined; the Phantom will win! The Bugatti will lose!

The bald businessman's eyes gleamed with greed.
"Brothers, this is a golden opportunity! Prince Bandar needs to cover his losses and won't let Bugatti win, but we can bet on the Phantom to win! Isn't this just picking up free money?"

Like a drop of water thrown into boiling oil, the news quickly exploded in the minds of speculators eager for "certainty".

The previous doubts and fears were instantly replaced by the illusion of certain victory brought about by insider information.

The whispers turned into excited discussions, and many people began to move silently toward the betting points, their eyes rekindling the reckless, gambler's unique flame.

Those who were initially hesitant and observing finally couldn't resist after seeing someone take the lead and joined the ranks of those betting on "Phantom to win".

On the viewing platform, the atmosphere became eerily tense again, as if the previous somber mood was just an illusion.

Turki naturally heard the inside story, which was spreading like a plague.

The color drained from his face in an instant.

He abruptly turned his head to look at Walid and Mohammed, who still had his eyes closed, and his voice changed.

“Walid! Muhammad! They say…they say Uncle Bandar he…”

He wants to mortgage Crescent Island to the UAE?!

This bet is... a scam?! Bugatti... Bugatti has to lose?! Is it true?!

His gaze was fixed on Walid's face, seeking an answer, or rather, a source of support.

Walid finished the last bit of Kunafa in his hand, slowly wiped the corner of his mouth with a snow-white napkin, and then picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

He raised his eyes to meet Turki's terrified and anxious gaze, and nodded without saying a word.

This action shattered any remaining hope Turki had.

Allah is the greatest!

Turki seemed to have had his spine removed, and slumped into the gilded chair with a thud.

I've been fooled by Bandar.

Of course, more importantly...

"My... my ten million US dollars! You guys are going to rip me off!"

Turki wailed, clutching his curly hair with both hands, looking as if he had lost his parents and was in unbearable pain.

However, he was still loyal to his friends, and in the end he just vented his frustration by complaining, "You two... you're such a bunch of jerks!"

Seeing Turki's exaggerated expression, Walid's lips curled up into a very subtle arc.

He tried hard to keep a straight face, but a mischievous smile betrayed him.

He glanced quickly at Muhammad beside him.

Muhammad, who had been keeping his eyes closed like a stone statue, could no longer hold back and opened them.

The two exchanged a knowing glance.

"elder brother,"

Walid cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound more sincere. "Money is just an external thing. We should think more positively about it."

He leaned forward slightly. "At least, you stood where you were at the most crucial moment."

You've already reclaimed the benefits from other places.

The stewards of the seven Sudri chieftains were watching, as were the leaders of the nine major tribes.

Your ten million is buying you a 'position' and 'vision' that countless ten million dollars in the future could never buy.

Turki was speechless after hearing these words.

He understands the principle.

He also knew that he had actually made a huge profit this time.

But the little coins floating towards the sky made him feel both heartache and financial pain.

Finally, his shoulders slumped in despair, like a punctured balloon, his face contorted in grief as he wailed repeatedly, "My money... it's all gone..."

Amidst Turkina's mournful cries, which sounded like Xianglin's wife, the scarlet countdown numbers on the huge electronic timer screen finally reached zero!

……

(End of this chapter)