1: Chapter 1 The Prince Buried by the Yellow Sands

"Ouch..."

His head felt like it was splitting apart.

The first reaction Reza had when he opened his eyes was that someone had hit him on the back of the head with a blunt object.

The second reaction was that the ceiling was wrong.

The grayish-yellow plaster ceiling was covered in cracks like spiderwebs, and in the corner, a copper chandelier was missing two bulbs, with the remaining one emitting a feeble, dim light.

The air was mixed with a dry, earthy smell, and also... the smell of mutton?

He sat up abruptly.

A wave of intense dizziness washed over him, and a flood of unfamiliar memories poured into his brain.

Iran. Pahlavi Dynasty. 1975.

Reza Farid Pahlavi, a collateral branch of the Pahlavi Dynasty, the only son of Prince Farid, the half-brother of King Pahlavi.

His mother was a Turkmen woman, so in the royal lineage theory, he was naturally looked down upon.

Three days ago, at a palace banquet in Tehran.

He was drunk at the time and, in front of foreign envoys, called the American ambassador a "lackey for oil peddlers."

King Pahlavi was furious.

The next day, a transfer order threw him from Tehran to Khuzestan Province.

He was made the acting governor of this poor province bordering Iraq.

It was called a governorship, but it was actually an exile.

"Your Highness, are you awake?"

The door was pushed open.

A dark, thin, and wiry man walked in carrying a copper tray.

On the tray was a pot of black tea and a few pieces of naan bread so dry they could kill someone if thrown.

Memory told Reza that this man was Hassan Rajab, thirty-two years old, his captain of the guard.

He was from the slums of Ahvaz, joined the army at sixteen, saved the life of the old Prince Farid during the Dhofar Rebellion in Oman, and had been loyal to the family ever since.

"What time is it now?" Reza's voice was hoarse.

"Four in the afternoon. You've been unconscious for almost a day."

Hassan placed the copper tray on the bedside table, his dark face filled with unconcealed worry.

"The military doctor said it was heatstroke and a hangover, and told you to drink more water. Your Highness, do you want me to drag that doctor back to take another look?"

"No need."

Reza picked up the teapot and took a few gulps directly from the spout.

The scalding black tea flowed down his throat, finally washing away some of the chaotic feeling.

He glanced at his own hands—young, with a deep wheat-colored complexion, long knuckles, and thin calluses.

Although the original owner was a prince, he wasn't completely useless; at least he had practiced horse riding and shooting.

A twenty-three-year-old body, in the prime of life.

Good enough.

"Hassan."

"Here!"

"How many men do I have under my command right now?"

Hassan was stunned; he probably didn't expect this to be the first question His Highness asked upon waking up.

But he didn't hesitate and reported quickly:

"The guard unit has an authorized strength of five hundred, with four hundred and thirty-seven actually present."

"Among them, there are about two hundred veterans who can actually fight. The rest are green recruits enlisted last year who can't even shoot straight."

"As for equipment, we have three hundred G3 rifles, most of which are refurbished items phased out by the Americans, but there is plenty of ammunition. There are no heavy weapons; we haven't even been issued any mortars."

"What about the regular garrison at the Governors Mansion?" Reza continued to ask.

"The 92nd Infantry Division is stationed in Ahvaz, and the division commander is Jafar Amin."

Hassan's tone changed.

"But those are the King's men and have nothing to do with us. The previous acting governor emptied the provincial treasury before leaving, leaving you with nothing but an empty shell."

Reza slowly put down the teapot.

What a brilliant, open conspiracy.

King Pahlavi was no fool.

Although Khuzestan Province was poor, it had one thing: oil.

Eighty percent of Iran's oil production came from this province.

But the extraction rights were entirely in the hands of the "National Iranian Oil Company."

That was a joint venture between the Americans and the royal family, and it had absolutely nothing to do with him, the acting governor.

Throwing him here was just to make him a clay bodhisattva—he could see the mountains of gold and silver, but he couldn't touch a single penny.

It would be best if he just withered away in the border desert, or if Saddam Hussein's intelligence agents created an accident for him to die silently.

Dealing with eyesores within the royal family was always this elegant.

But King Pahlavi hadn't counted on one thing.

That was that he, Reza Pahlavi, was no longer that playboy prince who would get drunk and curse people out.

His soul came from 2024.

In his past life, Chen Feng was a top geopolitical researcher in China and also a senior engineer in the military-industrial system, a participant in the overall design of a certain type of anti-ship missile.

Forty-seven years old, unmarried, and died in an explosion while testing a new solid-fuel propellant at a test base in the northwest.

A man who had studied the geopolitical landscape of the Middle East for twenty years.

A man who could recite the timeline of every war in the Middle East from 1975 to 2000.

A man with a simplified overall design plan for a missile in his head.

Heaven had thrown him into Iran in 1975.

Thrown him into the very center of the Middle Eastern storm.

He knew better than anyone what would happen on this land in the next twenty-five years.

In 1979, Ayatollah Khomeini launched the Islamic Revolution, and the Pahlavi Dynasty collapsed.

In 1980, the Iran-Iraq War broke out, lasting a full eight years and killing over a million people on both sides.

In 1990, Saddam Hussein invaded Kuwait, and the United States launched the Gulf War.

And throughout this entire process, the United States, Israel, and Iraq.

Three vultures had always been circling above Iran, tearing at the flesh of this ancient empire.

In his past life, Chen Feng could only write hypotheses in his papers, such as "If Iran had established an independent military-industrial system in 1977" or "If Iran had possessed precision-guided weapons during the Iran-Iraq War."

Now, he could personally turn these "ifs" into reality.

Reza stood up.

"Hassan, give me the list of heads of all departments in the Governors Mansion."

"Also, get me the financial reports, oil production reports, and census data for Khuzestan Province from the past three years."

Hassan opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to say, "Your Highness, you just arrived on your first day."

But after seeing Reza's eyes, he swallowed the words.

Those eyes had changed.

Hassan had followed the old Prince Farid for ten years and could be considered someone who had seen big scenes.

But he had never seen this kind of look in the young prince's eyes before.

It wasn't anger, it wasn't resentment, but a cold certainty after calculating everything.

Like a wolf that had been hungry for three days, finally seeing the entire grassland.

"Yes!! Your Highness."

Hassan turned to leave, but was called back when he reached the door.

"Find one more person for me," Reza said.

"In the Physics Department of the University of Tehran, there is a female student named Fatima Hosseini, who should be a junior this year."

"Last year, she published a paper in the 'Iranian Science Journal' about a theoretical model for uranium enrichment centrifuges. She was targeted by the Americans, but because the Pahlavi Government didn't value basic science, no one paid any attention to her."

Hassan's eyes were extremely confused.

He had no idea when His Highness had started paying attention to academic journals.

And he didn't know how His Highness could possibly know a female college student.

But he didn't ask.

"I will take care of it."

The door closed.

Reza walked to the window and pushed open the wooden window, which was covered in dust.

Dusk in Khuzestan Province.

A blood-red sunset burned on the horizon, and in the distance was an endless desert and a few lonely oil derricks.

The hot wind, carrying grit, hit him in the face, stinging.

Ugly. Poor. Barren.

But this wasn't what he saw.

What he saw was that about thirty kilometers to the southeast of this desert beneath his feet, there was a giant oil field that wouldn't be discovered until 2003 in his past life.

It had reserves of 4.2 billion barrels.

That would be his first pot of gold.

"The interests of Persia are above everything else," he said softly.

Then he chewed on the words, feeling they were very appropriate.

He had been Chinese for forty-seven years in his past life and loved his motherland.

But in this life, since Heaven had made him a Persian.

Then he would be a true Persian lion.

As for the United States, Israel, and Iraq,

Come one, eat one!!