Chapter 1174 - 1037: From Warlord to Politician

The news of Sayif's suicide spread like a plague among the remnants of armed forces loyal to Sayif (GNA).

The self-destruction of their backbone shattered the last will to resist among the city's soldiers.

Despair engulfed Tripoli like a cold tide, submerging the remaining government army strongholds.

When the Haftar National Army (LNA) and the Vanguard troops of Song Heping's Mercenary Group began advancing into the city, they encountered almost no organized resistance.

Flags made from white sheets or even tattered rags were hastily raised on the war-torn streets, windows, and behind shelters in Tripoli, fluttering weakly in the breeze still thick with gunpowder.

At dawn, Tripoli declared the city had fallen.

At nine in the morning, Song Heping stood next to a BPM armored vehicle mounted with a heavy machine gun, watching as Haftar, surrounded by a retinue of guards, slowly drove into the city—the pinnacle of power—in a Toyota Land Cruiser marked with the LNA symbol.

Haftar was tall and straight, dressed in a neatly pressed khaki officer's uniform, his gray hair meticulously combed, his face glowing with the undeniable glory and sternness of a victor.

"General, congratulations."

Song Heping approached, his voice calm, extending his hand.

Haftar quickly jumped out of the vehicle, approaching Song Heping with the respect of a subordinate.

"Song, without you, we wouldn't have made it here. Libya's history will remember your name."

"History is written by the victors, General."

Song Heping smiled faintly, his gaze sweeping over the surrounding ruins and the mixed looks of fear and confusion cast from door crevices and windows.

"But how it is written determines whether it lasts. As for me, you'd better not write me into it. I have no desire to leave my name in another country's annals; being too conspicuous isn't good for someone like me."

"I'll do as you say."

Haftar wouldn't oppose anything Song Heping said now.

"Let's go back to the LNA's temporary headquarters; there are some matters I need your opinion on."

"Alright, let's go."

Song Heping knew very well that, despite Haftar being a victor basking in glory, the headaches were just beginning.

Being the head of a war-torn country with many tribal factions and internal divisions isn't easy.

The former government headquarters had long been destroyed by war, and the temporary command was set up in the relatively intact Central Bank Building.

Upon entering the temporary command room, the joy of victory on Haftar's face was replaced by a deep-seated hatred.

He took a report out of his pocket and slammed it fiercely onto the table.

"Damn American!"

Haftar's voice was full of fury.

"And that damned envoy, Howard Mitchell! He's still hiding in the embassy like a sewer rat! Does he think I don't know who's backing Sayif? The sinking of the Marlin Fish, he's involved! Someone! Get him out of Libya immediately! Tell everyone, this is the consequence of interfering in our country's internal affairs!"

The order carried a chilling intent to kill.

A few menacing-looking guards immediately turned around.

"Wait."

Song Heping's voice wasn't loud, yet it was like an invisible barrier, halting the guards in their tracks.

He walked to the map table, glanced at the report, and then looked at Haftar, his eyes sharp as blades.

"General, driving him out or even putting him to death is easy."

Song Heping flipped through the report in his hand, a slight disdainful smile appearing at the corner of his mouth.

"But then what? After venting, besides giving Washington a new excuse to fill CNN and BBC headlines with 'Haftar regime brutally expels American diplomats,' what other benefits are there? They'll immediately declare you an 'unpredictable dictator' and then turn to the southern deserts or the western mountains to support another 'Sayif.' Money, weapons, intelligence, to them, are just numbers. And you will fall into an endless cycle of civil war."

Haftar's thick eyebrows furrowed tightly, his chest heaving, clearly trying to restrain his anger.

"Are we just going to let them continue snooping around like nothing's happened? Song, don't forget, they've listed you as 'terrorist'! This is a huge humiliation!"

"I certainly haven't forgotten."

Song Heping spread his hands and continued: "I hate Americans more than you do, but hatred and impulse are a soldier's instincts. Your role is now transitioning from a successful general to the helm of a country. A navigator needs a broad perspective that weighs pros and cons, the political wisdom to temporarily seat the most hated enemies across the negotiation table, a facade of 'friendly relations,' even if it makes one nauseous."

He picked up a red pencil from the table and drew a circle around Tripoli.

"Tripoli is just the beginning. You need time to digest the fruits of victory, integrate internal factions, and restore the most basic order to give people hope. Instead of immediately setting up targets for all Western powers, Britain, France, and the United States, they also have their contradictions. Pushing them all to the opposite side is the most foolish choice. We must exploit these contradictions, make them suspicious of each other, let them still see a glimmer of 'cooperation' potential with you, and even if it's just a hypocritical show, it can secure us a valuable time window."

Haftar stared at the red circle on the map, the anger in his eyes gradually replaced by deep thought.

He had spent half his life fighting wars, accustomed to the battlefield's black-and-white decisions.

Song Heping's words were like a key, opening a door for him to a more complex, and even more dangerous, world.

"You mean... to appease them?"

Haftar's voice deepened.

"Not to appease, but to make strategic contact."

Song Heping corrected, "Tell them that the war is over. The LNA is committed to restoring peace and stability in Libya. We welcome all countries and institutions that respect Libyan sovereignty and are willing to play a constructive role in the rebuilding process. At the same time, clearly warn them that any attempt to undermine stability or support remaining hostile forces will be considered a declaration of war against the new Libyan regime, and they will bear the consequences. The wording can be official, it can be mild, but the bottom line must be firm and clear."

He put down his pencil and looked Haftar straight in the eyes, "General, expelling an envoy can only bring temporary satisfaction. But using him to send a 'controllable' and 'negotiable' signal to the Western world, even if they know it's fake, can temporarily stabilize the situation. Once you truly control the whole country and sharpen your blade, then it's not too late to settle accounts. Right now, what we need is time, not enemies on all fronts."

The command room was silent, with only sporadic gunfire and the low hum of a generator coming from afar.

Haftar took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly, as if exhaling all the resentment from his chest.

He heavily patted Song Heping on the shoulder.

"Song! You're not only a sword on the battlefield but also a beacon in the political fog!"

He turned around and spoke in a deep voice to his adjutant awaiting orders, "Immediately set up a temporary foreign affairs team. Send formal notices to the embassies and consulates of the United States, Britain, France, Italy in Tripoli: The LNA has taken control of the capital, committed to restoring order and peace. We have no intention of harming any diplomatic personnel, please stay calm and remain inside your premises. We will arrange for a responsible person to meet with them soon to discuss ensuring the safety of diplomatic institutions and future cooperation. The wording... should be formal and appropriate, but the core message should be as Mr. Song said!"

The adjutant saluted and left to carry out the order.

Haftar looked at Song Heping, with a newfound respect in his eyes.

"Song, stay. I need you. The Libyan Reconstruction Committee, you need a position, one of the top positions!"

Song Heping shook his head and walked to the window, gazing at the distant blue corner of the Mediterranean. "General, my battlefield is between the dunes and ruins, not in the parliament hall and cocktail parties. The 'Musician's' defense has completed its contracted mission. What you need to establish is a government authority belonging to the Libyans themselves. Having a foreign mercenary leader at the forefront will only bring you unnecessary trouble and criticism."

He turned around, his smile carrying a trace of fatigue and relief, "I need a vacation. The sea breeze of Tripoli smells much better than the smoke of gunpowder."

Knowing he couldn't force him to stay, Haftar nodded firmly, "Your accomplishments, Libya will never forget. If you need anything, come to me at any time. By the sea... I'll arrange the best place for you."

"It's useless to say empty words."

Song Heping half-jokingly raised his hand and made a money-counting gesture.

"I have tens of thousands of mouths in my company waiting to be fed, and the expenses are huge..."

Haftar immediately understood, laughing heartily, "No problem! The interests you want, I'll take care of them! In the cake of oil, you'll get a generous share!"

A week later, in Tripoli, by the Mediterranean, on Hadi Beach.

The fires of war seemed to have temporarily moved away from this once prosperous coastal area.

Although the buildings were riddled with bullet holes and the beach still scattered with remnants of war, the blue sea water still gently lapped against the rocks on the shore.

Song Heping moved into a relatively intact beach villa, which used to be the property of a wealthy businessman and has now become his temporary safe haven.

He was dressed simply in a T-shirt and shorts, barefoot walking on the soft sandy beach, enjoying a rare moment of peace.

The sea breeze brushed his face, bringing with it a salty and fishy smell, also blowing away some of the iron-blooded and smoky aroma ingrained in his bones.

The satellite phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated.

Song Heping glanced at the number, a look of surprise immediately showing on his face.

Why would she call at this time?

Impossible...

She should have cut off contact with me by now to avoid being detected by the CIA.

"Baby."

A familiar female voice with a slight static noise came from the other end of the line.

It was a standard American English accent.

"Angel?!"

Song Heping's voice instantly rose, filled with incredulous surprise.

"You're calling me at this time? Didn't I tell you not to contact me for the time being?"

Instinctively, he looked around, as if worried someone might be listening.

"I'm not in the United States; I'm in Mitiga now."

Angel's voice carried a hint of tease and the weariness of travel, "Mitiga International Airport. Just got off the plane. My identity is the 'Horizon News Group' CEO and special war correspondent. I'm on assignment to interview the mysterious figure who just 'liberated' the Libyan capital, the 'African Ghost', Mr. Song Heping."

"What?!"

Song Heping's heart skipped a beat, almost leaping out of his chest.

"Are you crazy?! Do you know what Tripoli is like now?! Stray bullets, landmines, unpurged deserters, resentful lurkers... and the Western institutions that wish I were dead all have their eyes on this place! You must get back on the plane and leave immediately! Now!"

His tone suddenly turned severe, with an unquestionable command.