By: Nuradeen, Farmer by Trade, Survivor by Accident

Salam, Peace, and Pew Pew to All!

After one week of bravely existing in Eclesiar, I finally found my calling: A humble grain farmer.
That’s right. While others train for war or climb political ladders, I grow wheat — noble, golden, and slightly crunchy from sand.

But this isn’t just any wheat. This is Saudi-grown grain, forged under the harsh sun of Arar and stubborn enough to thrive in the desert.



Truly, desert-born, desert-bred, bread-fed.

Rumor Has It… Alexandria Loves Carbs. Word in the Arar bazaar was that Alexandria, now under USA control, had a market full of hungry American soldiers craving grain for their burger buns. Sounded like a golden opportunity.



So I did what any self-respecting entrepreneur would do. i loaded my hand cart with grain and blindly followed the rumor into a city I’d never been to — fully unaware of the chaos waiting for me.

I crossed the mighty desert for many days and nights, guided by stars and driven by hope.
(Okay, it actually took about 10 seconds, but I had to solve a captcha featuring cats looking t me first. A true test of patience.)

When I finally arrived at the legendary Alexandria, first order of business was lodging. I strolled into the nearest Q1 inn, where I immediately felt like the main character in a Western, every pair of eyes locked onto me like I owed them money.

As I approached the counter, I heard a whisper behind me:

“Another foreigner trying to steal our wealth…” Excellent. Just the kind of warm welcome that makes a man want to sleep with one eye open.



But I didn’t complain. Q1 inns come with Q1 expectations. I found my straw bed, curled up, and prayed I wouldn’t be stabbed by judgmental glances in the night.

At dawn, after eating a Q1 loaf of bread that tasted suspiciously like sandpaper, I marched proudly to the market. To my surprise, it was empty. Deserted. Quiet. Spookily peaceful.

After hours of awkward silence, one lone Egyptian approached.

“Where are you from?”
“Saudi,” I replied proudly.
He gave a knowing nod and said,

“We like Saudis. That’s why I’m telling you this: Leave. Now.”
Then he vanished into thin air. Probably a Mirage NPC.

Did I listen? Of course not. I had grain to sell and poor business instincts. Just when I was about to yell “Buy one grain, get a smile free!”, a squad of USA soldiers marched into the square. They looked tense. Like, “this bread better be gluten-free” tense.

Suddenly, one of them collapsed, followed by a distant scream:

“FREEDOM!!”
“REVOLUTION!!”
And then... BOOM. GUNFIRE. CHAOS.

Bullets started flying from balconies, windows, vending machines — I think even a pigeon was packing heat. I hid behind my hand cart, praying to God while still shouting:

“CHEAP QUALITY GRAIN FROM ARAR! BEST IN THE WORLD!”

Capitalism Saves the Day
Mid-chaos, a USA soldier dove behind my cart.
He looked me dead in the eye and said,



“Hey buddy… you selling Arar grain?”
“Yes,” I replied, still shaking. “Best grain in the world.”
“Thank God. Our supply ran out weeks ago. Burger buns been trash ever since.”

Right there, amidst fire and fury, we made a deal.
I sold my entire grain stock to this battle-hardened bun connoisseur.
Cash and chaos exchanged hands.

The Escape
Deal done, I didn’t wait for change.
I pulled my cart and ran like a man on fire — or at least, surrounded by it.

Back at the inn, gunfire still echoed outside.
But I had coin in my pocket, sand in my shoes, and grain crumbs in my beard.

I’ll lay low for now. Rest. Regroup.
And when the shooting stops…
I’ll head back to my farm.

Because at the end of the day, a simple man only wants three things:

  • Peace
  • Profit
  • And for people to appreciate good quality wheat.
Signed,
Nuradeen
Grain Farmer. Q1 Sleeper. Market War Veteran.