Dual Transmigration: Starting from being captured and brought to the Hehuan Sect!

"This place, Baiwa, is quite different from Istanbul."

Amir finally spoke, his tone much more subdued than yesterday.

"That's a tribal area, and the government's laws aren't very effective. Guns? Everyone there has one. But there are also many rules, and outsiders can easily get into trouble if they wander around the streets."

Lin Mo nodded but didn't reply.

The car stopped at the market outside the White-tiled City.

Strictly speaking, this area is not the core area of ​​Baiwa, but it is already considered a "no man's land" on the periphery by the locals.

The market was large, with makeshift sheds and stalls set up on the dusty open space, selling all sorts of things.

Used home appliances, livestock, smuggled daily necessities, and brand-name clothes whose authenticity is indistinguishable from fakes.

What caught Lin Mo's attention most was that some stalls openly displayed bullet belts and magazines, piled up on the ground like cabbages.

"You don't really want to buy a gun, do you?"

Amir finally voiced the question he'd been holding back all the way. He watched as Lin Mo quickly washed up in the Peshawar hotel and was about to leave when he hurriedly followed.

"Brother, let me make this clear to you. Foreigners need a gun license to buy guns here, and you don't have one. And even if you did buy one, you couldn't take it with you. The checkpoints are more thorough than a flour sieve. If you get caught, it's arms smuggling, which is a serious crime. Take my advice: if you really want to play with guns, I'll take you to the shooting range. They have all kinds of guns there, and you can shoot as many as you want."

Lin Mo reached into his pocket, pulled out a hundred-dollar bill, and stuffed it directly into Amir's hand:

"I know all that you're saying. But the guns at the shooting range are like public buses; anyone can get on, it's no fun. I just like having my own gun. Shooting it myself, cleaning it myself, maintaining it myself, pulling the trigger myself—the shooting range can't give me that feeling."

Amir glanced down at the banknotes in his hand, then looked up at Lin Mo. He remained silent for a few seconds, then stuffed the money into his inner pocket, grinned, and a knowing glint appeared in his eyes:

"You're quite an interesting person. Okay, come with me, but when we get there, don't say anything inappropriate, and don't touch anything you shouldn't."

The car departed from the white-tiled hotel and drove for nearly an hour along a bumpy dirt road into the mountains.

The scenery outside the window became increasingly desolate. Occasionally, one could see a few villages made up of adobe houses. Children chased and played barefoot by the roadside, while women wrapped in headscarves kept their distance.

After crossing another barren hill, a wide-open valley suddenly appeared before us, dotted with countless sheds and tents. From afar, we could hear sporadic gunshots echoing through the valley.

Amir parked the car at the entrance of the valley and led Lin Mo on foot inside.

This is the White Tile Black Market.

Lin Mo had expected to see a chaotic and dilapidated flea market, but the scene before him was much more orderly than he had imagined, even carrying a strange sense of everyday life.

Rows of stalls lined both sides of the dirt road, with guns casually laid out on tarpaulins, hung on wooden frames, or leaned against the walls, mingling with the smell of dust and gun oil.

Behind the stall was a makeshift gun-testing area where customers could inspect the goods on the spot. Gunshots rang out one after another, but the people setting up stalls around didn't even lift their eyelids, as if it were just background noise they were used to.

AK series rifles were everywhere, versions from various eras, with the paint on the stocks worn away to reveal the wood grain; M4 carbines and M16 rifles were lined up in a row, some even with grenade launchers attached.

The German G3 and the Soviet SVD sniper rifles were on display, and several heavy M249 machine guns leaned against the wall, their ammunition belts hanging down from the feed ports like lazy golden snakes.

What surprised Lin Mo the most was that he saw a Barrett cannon in the corner of a stall.

The gun was almost as tall as a person, and its thick barrel and distinctive square muzzle brake made it stand out among a pile of rifles, like a steel beast crouching in the shadows.

He circled the sea of ​​guns, observing them closely. He quickly noticed a problem.

Even though they are both AKs, some of the ones at the stalls are obviously counterfeit from local workshops, with crooked rivets and loose joints between the handguard and the receiver.

Some stalls, on the other hand, displayed goods that were clearly from legitimate military factories, with even blueing, clear engraving, and a quality that was on a completely different level.

With a gun, even a slight difference in accuracy can mean the difference between hitting the bullseye and missing the target entirely.

Not only is accuracy with counterfeit guns a matter of luck, but they can also easily jam or explode if fired too often. He didn't want to be ruined by a substandard gun at a crucial moment.

Lin Mo squatted down in front of the largest stall.

The stall owner was an old man in his fifties with a thick, white beard and a traditional Pashtun brown turban. He sat in a rattan chair, slowly sipping his tea, his cloudy but sharp eyes silently observing the customers as they entered.

His stall was almost two or three times the size of the stalls next to it, and it had a full range of firearms laid out on the tarpaulin, from pistols to rifles to submachine guns, and even heavy machine guns.

More importantly, these guns were clearly a grade higher in quality than those at other stalls.

Amir crouched down beside him and said in a low voice:

"This old guy's name is Mustafa. He's been doing business in Baiwa for thirty years and has a decent reputation; he doesn't really rip people off. But he only accepts US dollars."

Lin Mo squatted in front of the stall, his gaze sweeping over the rows of cold, hard guns, torn between which one to buy.

Suddenly, a series of rapid footsteps came from behind. Lin Mo subconsciously turned his head and glanced over. Seven or eight people were surrounding a woman and walking towards them.

The woman's features had distinct Western Region characteristics: a high nose bridge, deep-set eyes, and very fair skin. At first glance, she looked somewhat like Dilraba, except that she had a sharp and piercing look in her eyes.

Her gaze swept over Lin Mo, so briefly it barely lingered.

He's just a Xia person; he's too common in a place like Baiwa. He's not worth a second glance.

"Is our goods ready?"

The woman spoke, not in the local Payang language, but in Tocharian.

The surrounding vendors clearly didn't understand and just smiled blankly.

But Lin Mo's "Language Encyclopedia" skill was working automatically, and every word was clear.

"Of course, Miss Dilireba!"

Mustafa quickly stood up and pointed eagerly to the distance.

There was a large truck parked there, its back compartment tightly bound with ropes. Judging by the depth of the tires, it was definitely not carrying light cargo.

Lin Mo withdrew his gaze, continuing to play with the gun in his hand without changing his expression; he had no intention of meddling in other people's business.

Dili gestured with her chin toward the attendants behind her.

A lean man strode over to the truck, lifted a corner of the canvas, and the beam of his flashlight shone a few times in the cargo compartment. He then turned and nodded to Dilireba.

"Same as always, half cash, half payment upon delivery."

Dili pulled a bulging brown paper envelope from the inside pocket of her trench coat and slapped it into Mustafa's hand.

Mustafa squeezed the thickness of the envelope, revealing a set of teeth stained yellow from smoking:

"Miss Dilire is very efficient. I specially transferred this batch of goods from the north. The quality is absolutely top-notch, enough for you to use in Harbin for a while."

"Shut up."

Dilireba's voice suddenly dropped several octaves, "Just do business, stop making such a fuss."

"Yes, yes, look at my mouth."

Mustafa lightly slapped himself in the face, chuckled sheepishly, and stepped aside to instruct his underlings to move the goods.

Lin Mo had already pieced together most of the situation in his mind: this woman came from Tokharistan to buy weapons, and in considerable quantities.

That was a major town in southern Tokharistan, a place where armed forces were locked in a tug-of-war.

Anyone who dares to cause trouble in such a place is either a warlord or the head of a mercenary group.