Chapter 3: Have some Goddamn Faith

The moniker chosen for their audacious endeavor was none other than 'Faith' – a name that resonated with the essence of their ultimate scheme to triumph against insurmountable odds. The very fabric of 'Faith' was woven from a tapestry of unwavering unity, bound together by a shared compassion and an unyielding commitment to a genuine, noble goal. This goal, devoid of personal gain, was singular in its purpose: to effect a transformative coup, to forge a path toward liberation from the chains of oppression.

The architecture of 'Faith' was built upon the strength of a resolute constituency, a collective force whose hearts beat in unison with the rhythm of their shared purpose. Their unity transcended the boundaries of individual ambitions, instead converging into a symphony of determination aimed at achieving the unattainable. 'Faith' was more than just a plan; it was a living, breathing embodiment of hope and tenacity.

The cornerstone of 'Faith' was a genuine compassion that flowed through each participant's veins. It was this empathy that kindled the flames of their rebellion, propelling them forward with an unshakeable commitment to their cause. Their journey was not a selfish pursuit, but a selfless endeavor to overturn a tyrannical regime and usher in a new era of freedom.

This grand design, conceived in the shadows, had the potential to change the course of history. The concept of 'Faith' was a masterpiece of collaboration, a testament to the power of unity and the strength that arises when kindred spirits are united by a common purpose. It was their collective belief, their shared 'Faith,' that fortified them against the odds stacked high against them.

As they embarked on this treacherous journey, the threads of 'Faith' wove a tapestry of hope, resilience, and unwavering determination. With hearts ablaze and minds focused, they embarked on a mission that defied the very essence of impossibility. In the name of 'Faith,' they vowed to rise above the challenges, to overcome the obstacles, and to pave the way toward a future drenched in the light of liberation.

The path to progress often demands bold choices – the meticulous art of elimination or drafting – a course that propels one ahead, shedding the remnants of the past. The truism resonates: Rome, that majestic testament to human ambition, wasn't conjured in a fleeting moment. A singular word echoes in the tapestry of their pursuits: "Jika." It's more than a name; it's the essence of their journey.

Within this narrative, three figures emerge, braided by destiny's hand: Joseph Pharawan, steadfast in his convictions; Zechariah Soulook, a bastion of unwavering resolve; and the enigmatic Rantorifu "Riff" Sawamura, his motives veiled in intrigue. United by circumstance and bound by shared determination, they ascend as architects of an unfolding legacy.

Their odyssey unfolds like the unfurling pages of a fabled tome, reaching beyond the limits of the mundane. Their footprints grace the sands of a remote island, etching a tale that seamlessly melds past and present. In the realm of their shared narrative, "Jika" transcends a mere term; it morphs into a clarion call, summoning kindred spirits to embrace a collective vision.

In the quiet of twilight, stars shimmer like scattered dreams across the celestial canvas, casting an otherworldly glow. Here stand Joseph, Zechariah, and Riff, illuminated by a sense of purpose. They are the luminaries of a burgeoning family, forged not by blood but by shared purpose. Their legacy is meticulously chiseled with each step taken, each decision made, each heartbeat pulsating with the promise of a fresh dawn.

In the interplay of shadows and light, the echo of their unwavering resolve reverberates. Their presence redefines the town, an infusion of newfound vigor that whispers change upon the wind. Their narrative entwines seamlessly with that of the island, lives intersecting, leaving an indelible mark upon the tapestry of time.

Thus, onward they stride, with "Jika" as their anthem and destiny as their North Star. The road that beckons is uncertain, strewn with trials that will test their mettle. However, with every step, they edge closer to the zenith of their aspirations. With unity as their compass and purpose as their guide, they navigate uncharted waters, embracing the lessons of yore as they etch their saga upon the very pages of history.

As the journey unfolds, the echoes of their conviction resonate, an unyielding chorus that underscores their every triumph and tribulation. Each sunrise casts new light on their determined path, each sunset bearing witness to the mark they leave. And through it all, the saga of Joseph, Zechariah, and Riff, pioneers of the island, is inscribed not just in ink but in the collective heart and memory of a place and time forever transformed by their unrelenting pursuit of "Jika" – a pursuit that embodies the essence of progress and the resilience of the human spirit.

In the wake of that huddled night, the Jika Boys resumed their routine existence, a facade concealing the fires of their clandestine purpose. They bided their time, patiently awaiting the opportune moment to unfurl their stratagem. Among the suspects, Jericho stood as the prime candidate for their initial inquiry – a figure shrouded in ambiguity, a puzzle piece yearning to be deciphered. His proximity to Yynn, a connection whispered among shadows, hinted at a possible liaison between them.

Days melted into nights, and the town's pulse throbbed with an air of both anticipation and intrigue. Each sunlit dawn found Joseph, Zechariah, and Riff engaged in their customary roles, masked by the ordinary veneer of daily life. Yet beneath the surface, their collective consciousness hummed with the resonance of a grander design, an intricate web of plans slowly weaving itself together.

Jericho, the enigma at the heart of their pursuit, occupied their thoughts like a persistent whisper. His proximity to Yynn, veiled in layers of uncertainty, served as the catalyst for their focused investigation. With each passing day, their determination crystalized, the threads of their plan intertwining with an unwavering sense of purpose.

In the heart of the island's enclave, secrets lingered like ghosts, and whispers of past misdeeds swirled through the wind. The Jika Boys navigated these treacherous waters, driven by a potent blend of curiosity and righteous resolve. Their every interaction, every exchange of words, was a chess move on the board of their strategy – a calculated dance leading them closer to the heart of the mystery.

As twilight descended, casting long shadows across the town, the Jika Boys convened once more. Lit by the soft glow of lantern light, their faces reflected a shared understanding – the pursuit of truth was no fleeting fancy, but an unswerving commitment that bound them together. And so, they prepared to tread deeper into the labyrinthine corridors of intrigue, inching closer to the heart of the enigma that was Jericho.

The story, like an intricate tapestry, continued to unravel, revealing fragments of truth and deceit, of loyalty and betrayal. With each passing day, the Jika Boys edged ever closer to the precipice of revelation, guided by their shared purpose, and emboldened by the fire of justice that burned within their souls. And as the moon waxed and waned, and stars punctuated the night sky like shimmering sentinels, their journey persisted, each step a testament to their unyielding resolve and the power of a bond forged in pursuit of a truth that could alter the very fabric of their world.

The revelation of Jericho's potential involvement in the assault fanned the flames of outrage within the Jika Boys, particularly stoking the fires of Joseph's indignation. The mere suggestion of his complicity was an affront to their pursuit of justice. For Joseph, the idea of Jericho's hand in such a reprehensible act, especially against Yynn, was a bitter pill to swallow.

Driven by an insatiable need to unearth the truth, Joseph embarked on a quest for answers. His destination was clear: Meme, the harbinger of a firsthand account that could potentially shatter or absolve the suspicions surrounding Jericho.

In the recess session, Joseph goes to the warehouse to have a conversation with Meme.

"How's life so far?" Joseph's voice cut through the air, laced with a quiet earnestness.

Meme's response carried a note of detachment, a reflection of a world that had yet to capture his attention. "So far, nothing's managed to seize my interest," he replied.

"Well, I'm not here to waste your time, Meme." Joseph's tone shifted, carrying a sense of purpose that held no room for frivolity.

Meme's gaze met Joseph's, a silent understanding passing between them. "Me and the boys have something brewing. We're aiming to disrupt the machinations of the wrongdoers during the mid-semester break. Jericho is our first point of investigation. I've got a tape recorder at the ready. The plan is to catch him off guard, let his words betray him."

A wry smile tugged at the corner of Meme's lips. "Don't let yourself get caught in the hero's trap, my friend. Trust me, that role doesn't play out as one might expect."

Joseph's response was swift, his conviction unwavering. "If I don't take a stand, who will?"

Meme chuckled softly, a sound laden with both familiarity and fondness. "Stubbornness runs deep in your veins, doesn't it?"

"It's the legacy of a warrior's blood," Joseph's words held a sense of ancestral pride, as if the very essence of his heritage propelled him forward.

A quieter moment followed, the air between them carrying a sense of camaraderie that transcended words. "Here's a request for you, Joseph. Whenever you find yourself with a spare moment, let's go fishing."

A quirked eyebrow accompanied Joseph's response. "Planning to bring Riff along?"

Meme's grin held a hint of mischief. "Why not? He's got quite the knack for reeling in a catch."

"Fair enough. Sometimes I forget he's a part of the landscape," Joseph admitted, a touch of amusement in his voice.

Time ticked away, and Meme signaled the end of their conversation. "Time's up, my friend. When I cast my memory back to that incident, I remember seeing them all converging on that abandoned factory. Yynn was there, bound and struggling. They forced her into the factory, a procession of shadows. And you know what struck me? Jericho, he was the last to enter. After that, the air was filled with pleas and tears. I fled, Joseph. I tried to find help, but when I returned, it was as if the factory had swallowed them whole. I regret not doing more."

Joseph's gaze held empathy, a recognition of the weight Meme carried. "Thank you for sharing this, my friend. And I look forward to our next fishing trip. You've already given more than you know to this cause."

The true motive of Jericho is neither to be found nor accomplished. Joseph is struggling whether he could trust Jericho tangled intention or try to seek more information by confronting Jericho himself. If hell's broken loose, the plan might be in the fatal condition as Joseph does not believe in Jericho yet. The best that Joseph can do is to face someone else and spare Jericho at the moment as the situation he faced is undeniably formidable. He sets his eyes on Judas Iscariot of the Irish Whip.

Judas Iscariot, aged 20, is an optimistic leader, he is feared by both parts of the island. Like most of the population of this island, crime activity becomes one of the most prominent jobs that they could fill. The Irish Whip could not care less about other people's safety and become the ruthless gang in town.

Joseph then thinks about how to get his hand on Judas Iscariot. A spy role-play is the most fitting way to encounter the head of the table and settle the score by any means. The main character hopes that his comrades are prepared to face the upcoming struggles that could change their life forever.

Within the walls of Joseph's residence, an unexpected arrival disrupted the tranquility of the day. A letter, seemingly conjured by the very winds of destiny, found its way into his hands. Unfolding the parchment, his eyes traced the words etched upon it – a message from an enigmatic sender, a beacon of potential aid amidst their tumultuous journey.

The letter, like a whisper from the shadows, bore an intriguing promise: "Keep on dominating territories and I'll give you any information that I could find." The words held a note of cryptic assurance, a pact forged in the depths of anonymity. The very essence of their cause seemed to resonate with the mysterious sender, drawing them into the orbit of the Jika Boys' mission.

Curiosity mingled with a surge of determination within Joseph's chest. Here was a stranger, a potential ally or informant, whose motives remained veiled. Yet, the thread they dangled before the Jika Boys held the potential to unravel the tapestry of truth they sought. The letter acted as a catalyst, a spark igniting Joseph's inner resolve to champion Yynn's cause and combat the shackles of colonialism that sought to enslave their land.

In the midst of uncertainty, the words held a promise of revelation, a glimmer of insight that could tip the scales in their favor. The Jika Boys, bound by their shared purpose, found themselves poised at the precipice of a choice – to embrace the shadowy alliance that beckoned or to tread cautiously, wary of potential pitfalls.

As Joseph clutched the letter in his hand, a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions swirled within him. The call to action resonated, an echo that transcended the written words. With every heartbeat, he sensed the gravity of the path they walked, the echoes of their footsteps etching a tale of resistance and resilience upon the sands of time. And so, bolstered by the stranger's cryptic message, Joseph's determination burned brighter, a beacon that guided the Jika Boys towards a future yet unwritten.

The Margareta Mansion stood as a testament to opulence and power, an imposing structure that housed none other than the island's ruler – Van Do Lee. Aged 45, he exuded an air of authority that matched his attire of choice: a crimson suit, accompanied by a black shirt and a vibrant red tie. The very fabric of his clothing seemed to echo his prominence, while his visage bore the weight of a legacy intertwined with conquest and control.

Descended from a line of colonisers, Van Do Lee's reputation carried a bittersweet legacy. A womaniser by nature, he was dubbed "The Casanova" by those who opposed him. His reputation as a libertine was as notorious as his disregard for anything beyond his own desires. The concept of selflessness seemed foreign in his world, an ideology overshadowed by his personal whims.

Raised in an environment steeped in privilege, Van Do Lee inherited a sophisticated perspective on the native populace. However, he remained ensnared by the shackles of his nature, perpetuating the destiny laid out before him – that of a patriarch to his ancestral lineage. His rule mirrored that of his forebears – unyielding, unapologetically ruthless, and marked by an innate bias towards his own community.

The rift between the Chano community and the aboriginal inhabitants was a chasm that seemed insurmountable. This division, perpetuated by animosities that festered over time, served to erode the very foundation of harmony, unity, and alliance among the locals. The past, present, and future of the island's fate hung precariously, like a delicate balance teetering on the edge of uncertainty.

Within the intricate dance of power and prejudice, the citizens found themselves wagering their very existence – a gamble where every decision carried the weight of destiny itself. The tapestry of their lives was woven with threads of chance, a complex weave that defied easy prediction. In a world where allegiances were as fragile as glass, alliances formed and faltered like the tides, leaving behind a landscape marked by both hope and trepidation.

In the verdant expanse of the Veve Garden within the Margareta Mansion, Van Do Lee summoned one of his trusted officials to engage in a discourse about the island's current state. Emerging through the garden's threshold was a figure of distinction – a man with an aura of both rugged handsomeness and cultivated charm. His long, waving hair cascaded with an air of nonchalance, complemented by a well-maintained stubble that added a touch of rugged elegance to his appearance. Draped in a prominent brown poncho, carefully crafted, he entered the garden with a sense of purpose that mirrored his presence.

Standing at a height of around 170 centimeters, he possessed a stature that commanded attention. His very arrival seemed to shift the atmosphere, drawing the gaze of those nearby. Yet, amid the curious gazes, a confrontation brewed. A Chano stranger, fueled by a disdain that ran deep, confronted the man in the poncho. An encounter that seemed to embody the divisions that plagued the island.

"What are you doing here, you barbaric scum?" The Chano's words were laced with contempt, his anger palpable. "This area belongs to the elite race, the Chano. You don't have a place here – on this island or within this realm. Take one more step, and you'll find yourself tasting the ground."

The poncho-clad man's response held a grace that contrasted the aggression directed towards him. "I beg your pardon, sir, for any uncouthness that may seem to emanate from me. My nature sometimes bests my intention. I'm here without any intention of causing trouble. I've an appointment with Mr. Van Do Lee, if I may have the privilege."

A terse retort came from the Chano stranger, laden with hostility. "I have no qualms about putting you in your place, you greasy rascal."

Before the confrontation could escalate further, Van Do Lee arrived on the scene, his presence commanding deference. Halting the Chano stranger's imminent attack, Van Do Lee intervened, his expression reflecting both annoyance and curiosity. The Chano, his moment thwarted, retreated with a final glare.

"Ah, Mr. Gym Manager," Van Do Lee addressed the man in the poncho with a mixture of greeting and expectancy.

"At your service, sir. And please, feel free to call me Ban," came the respectful response, the man's tone imbued with a blend of professionalism and approachability.

Ban Sukpimai, a man of thirty-one years, possessed a spirit that seemed eternally attuned to the untamed rhythms of the wilderness. His attire, a collection of meticulously crafted materials harvested from animal skins, spoke of a deep connection to nature's bounty. The textures and patterns that adorned his clothing carried whispers of his prowess as a hunter – a skill that set him apart as a force to be reckoned with.

In a world where survival was a testament to one's adaptability, Ban's reputation as a talented hunter resonated deeply. He navigated the wilderness with an innate understanding, a dance of instincts that painted him as a master of his craft. Animal skins were not just his chosen garments; they were a living testament to his ability to conquer the challenges of the environment he inhabited.

Among the many facets of Ban's identity, one stood particularly prominent – his role as the manager of the To Moi Gym. Within the hallowed walls of this establishment, a symphony of sweat, determination, and raw ambition echoed daily. It was here that Van Do Lee's henchmen honed their physical and mental prowess, sculpting themselves into formidable fighters. The gym's reputation was one of legend – its disciples emerged as the most revered combatants to tread the treacherous alleys of Sayon, the island's largest and most perilous towns.

Ban Sukpimai, with his rugged charisma and undeniable skills, stood as the architect of this formidable arena. The To Moi Gym served as a crucible of discipline, an environment where resilience and tenacity were forged. It was a reflection of Ban's own journey – his ability to adapt, survive, and ultimately thrive in a world shaped by its own uncompromising rules.

His presence within the hallowed halls, his gaze meeting the aspiring fighters' eyes, was a beacon of guidance. He embodied the melding of nature's wisdom and human determination, a living testament to the island's indomitable spirit. And as Ban Sukpimai stood on the precipice of the gym's bustling activity, he epitomised the very essence of their collective pursuit – the pursuit of strength, mastery, and survival in a world that often demanded nothing less than the very best.

In the labyrinthine tapestry of the island's towns, there were districts that carried stories of their own – Red Lights Avenue, a pulsating artery of life; Silk Road Pyro, where passions burned bright; Lee Do District, a mosaic of cultures and experiences; and Leng Kong Bashi, a realm echoing with history's whispers. Amid the tumultuous rhythms of existence, these places stood as a testament to the unyielding spirit that thrived within their confines.

Day after day, as the sun rose and cast its embrace across the landscape, the denizens of these districts embarked on a journey of survival. From dawn to sunset, their lives unfolded, each step carrying the weight of their struggles and dreams. For them, the specter of death was an ever-present companion – a reminder that existence was a delicate balance between strength and fragility. Those who had fallen in the throes of this ceaseless battle were honored for their unwavering courage, their determination to face the abyss head-on.

Yet, amidst the echoes of bravery and sacrifice, a question lingered – what was the battle they fought? It was a paradox that defied tradition, an enigma that diverged from the narratives of old. Their pursuits seemed to intertwine not with legacy or lineage, but with the pursuit of wealth and the insatiable hunger for more. Greed, like a persistent specter, had woven itself into the fabric of their motivations.

In the grand tapestry of life, these districts followed a path that was far from traditional. Instead, their compasses pointed towards the allure of riches, casting aside the yoke of convention. It was a short-term vision, a pact with immediacy that gripped their hearts and fueled their actions. The distinction of origin – whether native or of mixed heritage – dissolved in the face of this shared aspiration.

Their lives were a symphony of ambition, a tale told in the pursuit of prosperity. As the sun set beyond the horizon, painting the skies with hues of orange and crimson, these souls pressed on. They were the embodiment of the island's complexities, of dreams that reached for the heavens while feet remained planted in the earth. And as the night enveloped the landscape, they braced themselves for another day of struggle, resilience, and the unyielding pursuit of what lay beyond the horizon.

Education, once a beacon of enlightenment, now lay discarded, a casualty of the cynicism bred by manipulation and deceit. The authority's artful orchestration had tarnished its sanctity, eroding hope in its transformative power. Despair clung like a shadow, its ominous presence casting a pall over the landscape. The battle cry that once rallied spirits – the call to fight against one's nature, to overcome adversity – echoed through the streets of Sayon, a poignant lament for the fading embers of ancestral determination. Those spirits, infused with resilience over generations, now waned in the face of civilization's encroachment.

In a world marred by the trappings of progress, the very concept of victory over oneself seemed to vanish like smoke dissipating in the wind. Amidst the clamor of conformity, the struggle against one's own nature had been replaced by acquiescence to a more pervasive power – the force of societal order. The echoes of ancestors' wisdom dimmed as modernity's allure beckoned, and the notion of transcending one's limitations was relegated to a distant memory.

Yet, amidst this disillusionment, emerged the Jika Boys – a beacon of resolute faith in the face of societal decay. Their unwavering conviction shone brighter than the neon lights that adorned the city's streets, a testament to their allegiance to values forsaken by many. Their purpose, steadfast and unyielding, stood in stark contrast to the hooliganism that often dominated the landscape.

In the face of an ultimate plan designed to perpetuate subjugation, the Jika Boys remained steadfast. Their brilliance lay not in brash confrontation, but in the orchestration of an audacious scheme. To be entangled in the chaos was to succumb to its grasp, to be tainted by the very darkness they sought to vanquish. Instead, they wielded the power of incitement – a single spark igniting the flames of change. In a world where words held the power to shift destinies, their potency had never been more apparent.

Theirs was a battle of ideologies, a clash between the allure of conformity and the resolve of conviction. As the world spun on, caught in the tides of progress, the Jika Boys emerged as a testament to the enduring power of faith. It was a faith that dared to challenge the conventional, a faith that breathed life into the words etched by their forebears. Amidst the chaos, the conflict, and the cacophony, their voices rang clear – a rallying cry for a victory not over others, but over the confines of their own souls.

Amid the hushed expanse of the To Moi Gym, a symphony of iron and sweat, a sanctuary of transformation stood poised. Here, an array of fundamental equipment, from the rugged heft of dumbbells to the rhythmic cadence of the treadmill's stride, formed the arsenal of empowerment. Yet, amidst this symphony, one feature loomed larger than life – an imposing octagon-size fighting cage, an arena where ambitions were forged and dreams took flight.

Within this crucible of dedication and grit, a disciplined mindset was crafted, refined through the crucible of pain. For it was in the embrace of discomfort that the warrior's spirit truly awakened, adrenaline coursing through sinews, turning ordinary beings into formidable forces. The dull thud of weights hitting the ground harmonised with the staccato rhythm of breath, a testament to the unyielding commitment to self-improvement.

In the midst of this arena, Ban Sukpimai stood as both curator and conductor, guiding the flock of determined souls towards their fullest potential. His presence, an embodiment of experience and mastery, lent an air of reverence to the very air they breathed. And it was within these walls that he shaped not just physiques, but the very essence of character itself.

A clandestine meeting between Ban and Lee, though seemingly innocuous, bore the weight of possibility. Two worlds converging, their dialogue could be the genesis of change, a seismic shift in the current of Sayon Island's fate. Amidst the shadows of their whispered discussions, the seeds of transformation could find fertile ground.

The notion of an utmost guarding system held the promise of restoring order to the island's streets, a beacon of hope amidst the encroaching chaos. Crime rates, once the bane of existence, could be brought to heel through vigilance and strategic intervention. It was a daring proposition, a symphony of security and resilience harmonising to compose a safer, more prosperous future.

In local governance, a disheartening truth unfolded – the enforcers tasked with upholding the law seemed to languish in ineffectuality. Corruption, that insidious specter, had cast its shadow over the very heart of the state's operations, rendering their efforts feeble and often futile. A disheartening reality had taken root, where justice became a commodity, and integrity a scarce currency.

Within this landscape, the stranglehold of corruption seemed unbreakable, weaving its web through the intricate tapestry of power. Each effort to restore order was met with a counterforce that held sway over the very institution meant to safeguard the well-being of the people. The once-respected enforcers, the defenders of justice, now appeared as mere pawns in a grander scheme, their authority rendered hollow by the pervasive influence of deceit.

The cries for a prosperous nation echoed amidst the chaos, a beacon of collective aspiration that seemed distant, if not elusive. A truly successful country, it was believed, stood as a testament to the unity of purpose across all levels of society. From the highest echelons of power to the industrious labourers on the streets, every individual played a part, each action a brick laid in the foundation of greatness.

Yet, the lamentation remained – the collective workforce was not operating as a cohesive unit. The symphony of collaboration, so vital for a nation's resurgence, was drowned in discord and discordance. The absence of common purpose, the void of shared goals, hindered progress and left the nation shackled by its own disarray.

However, the whisper of hope endured, a resolute ember refusing to be extinguished. For in every corner, there were those who refused to be cowed by the prevailing tide of corruption. In the midst of the chaos, they stood as beacons of integrity, symbols of unwavering dedication to the cause of reform.

Another day, another prey, the next morning started late for Joseph. Earlier that night, the mystery of the unknown letter made quite a trouble for one of the allies of justice, Joseph. Regardless of his sniffing ability, he is average like another normal human being would act or possess. He could not find anything besides handwriting that somehow, he might have seen somewhere. Although, humans can share similar writing patterns and styles. The percentage of it is so low due to the number of humans who occupied this earth is relatively larger than inhabitants on the moon or so.