Chapter Forty-Nine: Infiltrating the Cabin

Lei Dong pressed his right shoulder lightly against the stock of the Type-21 sniper rifle. His gloved right hand gripped the handle, index finger resting gently on the trigger through the guard, his right eye glued to the infrared scope, vigilantly watching for any sign of movement within his field of vision, ready to cover Song Jingang and Wu Yun as they advanced under concealment.

The squad’s hideout was perilously close to the aircraft; even the slightest unexpected noise could have catastrophic consequences. Song Jingang and Wu Yun moved with the utmost caution, pausing every step, and in the final hundred meters, they lay flat in the grass, creeping forward inch by painstaking inch like serpents.

Only when he saw the two of them finally reach the shadow beneath the massive belly of the plane did Lei Dong allow himself a small sigh of relief.

Taking advantage of the dense shadows, Wu Yun and Song Jingang half-sat on the damp grass, taking a few deep, quiet breaths. Song Jingang pointed to his head and made a gesture to Wu Yun.

Wu Yun nodded, and together they activated the cameras on their helmets, made a quick adjustment, and linked to “Polaris.” Within a second, the image from beneath the plane was transmitted to every team member’s display.

From their perspective, it was clear that the aircraft had suffered severe friction and likely violent shocks during landing. Not only had it gouged a massive indentation in the grass, but the landing gear was only partially deployed, twisted like a snake, with the right wheel missing entirely. The rear of the fuselage lay flat on the ground, the body battered and scarred in multiple places.

Song Jingang signaled to Wu Yun and crept forward toward the nose of the plane, while Wu Yun circled toward the tail.

The operational plan had been laid out long before takeoff.

The fuselage was too thick to breach without a significant amount of explosives. But placing charges posed its own problems: the smooth surface left few places to hide them, and the brief moment after detonation could give the hijackers time to react. There was also a risk of harming the hostages, and worst of all, if the hijackers had rigged explosives inside, a sympathetic detonation could be disastrous.

While the plane’s windows would be easier to break, they were too small for entry, and thus not a viable option.

The only feasible approach was to enter through the rear cargo hold door or the cockpit hatch or emergency exit, infiltrate the cabin, and attack from both ends for a decisive strike.

They had worried that the hijackers might post sentries at these access points, but remote thermal imaging had ruled out that possibility.

“So much for being the so-called top agents of the world’s leading military power, or ‘elite holy warriors’… Can’t even think of something this basic—pathetic!” Watching Song Jingang and Wu Yun, Lei Dong breathed easier, but couldn’t resist a scornful sneer at the enemy’s incompetence.

Both Song Jingang and Wu Yun moved swiftly and silently, their feet gliding over the ground with graceful precision. In less than a minute, each was in position. But their methods diverged sharply at this point.

The cockpit hatch was nearly five meters above the ground. Song Jingang attached a small suction cup to the fuselage, gave it a few experimental tugs, and quietly stuck himself beside the hatch. Bracing himself with his left hand, he inserted a military knife into the tiniest crack between hatch and fuselage, slowly applying pressure. The blade, forged to exceptional hardness, bit into the gap, and with careful rotation, Song Jingang carved a neat circle before withdrawing the knife.

Under Lei Dong’s watchful eye, Song Jingang bored several small round holes at fifteen-centimeter intervals along the joint between hatch and fuselage. He stowed the knife, took out a tiny canister, drew a small amount of water from his portable pouch, and mixed it into the canister, shaking it vigorously a dozen times. Once the contents had merged into a viscous paste, he carefully poured the latest military-grade silent explosive into the holes, then pressed himself flat against the fuselage to wait.

This new silent explosive relied on a hydration reaction to harden and generate immense expanding force, fracturing even the toughest targets. The military version in Song Jingang’s hand required less material, reacted faster, and generated more expansion force than its civilian counterpart. Even from over 1,500 meters away, Lei Dong could clearly observe the drastic transformation within the tiny holes, almost imagining the frenzied interaction of water molecules and explosive compound.

In under three minutes, the substance had fully hardened. At a pressure of 150 megapascals—thousands of tons per square meter—the hatch began to splinter silently, without vibration or smoke, forming crack after crack. Within five minutes, the entire hatch had silently crumbled into fist-sized fragments, which slipped noiselessly to the floor.

Song Jingang twisted his body, planted his feet inside the cabin, released the suction cup, and slipped straight for the cockpit.

In contrast to Song Jingang’s “technical” approach, Wu Yun was the very image of brute force.

He started much the same, securing himself atop the cargo hold door with suction cups. But after drawing his favorite blade, the “Tiger’s Fang,” his actions became shockingly bold. Raising his right hand high, he drove the blade hard into the junction between door and fuselage.

Lei Dong’s heart leapt into his throat—what was this lunatic thinking? Even the slightest noise could ruin everything!

Lei Dong wanted nothing more than to leap down a hundred meters from his perch and kick the “Tiger’s Fang” from Wu Yun’s hand. But in the next instant, his jaw dropped in astonishment.

At the very moment the blade touched the door, a dark red light flashed along “Tiger’s Fang.” The blade slid into the metal as if it were a hot iron plunging into snow, or a knife slicing through butter—utterly silent, vanishing up to the hilt.

This was…

Lei Dong’s eyes nearly bulged from their sockets. He knew that crimson glow and the surge of spiritual energy it signaled all too well. Only cultivators at the Foundation Establishment stage or above could project their inner energy in this way!

By channeling energy along their meridians and releasing it outside the body, a practitioner could form a protective shield, the legendary “Gang Qi,” to block incoming strikes. Offensively, this energy could be focused to a pinpoint, exploding with destructive or subtle force, penetrating nearly any material. Achieving this required not only Foundation Establishment but also extraordinary control.

Now, Wu Yun coated his blade in true energy, using hard force to breach the barrier, then gentle power to destroy the door in silence. The transitions were seamless—clearly, though only at the mid-Foundation level, Wu Yun’s mastery rivaled Lei Dong’s own, whose Golden Core was nearly complete.

Lei Dong had always known Wu Yun was a cultivation prodigy, progressing at a breakneck pace, but the reality was still both shocking and exhilarating. Yet, a wave of frustration followed—the vast power of his own higher cultivation was all but useless here, like holding a golden rice bowl while begging for scraps.

Wu Yun moved with utmost care, slowly withdrawing “Tiger’s Fang,” shifting to another spot, and driving it in again. After a dozen repetitions, the locking mechanisms around the cargo hatch were destroyed.

Wu Yun braced the one-thousand-pound cargo door in his hands, lowering it inch by inch. His arms bulged with muscle as he gently set the door on the grass, then slipped into the plane’s belly. The entire operation was utterly silent, and even a few seconds faster than Song Jingang’s entry with the silent explosive.

“They’re in!” Lei Dong and Huang Xiwen both breathed a sigh of relief.

The rear cargo hold of the Bayne 777-200 was vast, capable of holding fourteen -3 containers, with a ceiling over three meters high—ample space for Wu Yun’s six-foot frame to move freely.

Wu Yun’s headlamp transmitted the dim, blurry scene to every squad member’s “Polaris” display.

There wasn’t much cargo—mostly checked luggage, haphazardly strapped down on two-by-two-meter pallets, leaving plenty of room for Wu Yun to maneuver. Keeping low, his powerful body moved like a panther through the shadows toward the simple staircase at the rear.

“Video online!” Song Jingang’s delighted voice came through the earpiece.

Lei Dong switched his “Polaris” to Song Jingang’s channel. Instantly, the cockpit appeared on his seven-inch display.

The footage wasn’t from Song Jingang’s helmet cam, but from a surveillance camera in the cockpit itself.

It was Lei Dong’s first time seeing the interior of a Bayne 777 cockpit in real time. Unlike the photos from the pre-mission briefing, the live video was even more striking.

Compared to ordinary airliners, the Bayne 777’s fully digital cockpit was spacious, with six displays—five large, one small—showing the plane’s attitude, engine parameters, and more. On either side of the central console were the broad leather seats for captain and co-pilot.

Song Jingang now sat in the captain’s chair, his long legs propped carelessly on the yoke in a cocky pose, a military laptop open across his thighs. A data cable extended from the overhead control panel to the laptop, streaming images directly to the squad’s “Polaris” system.

His fingers danced across the keyboard, and in moments, the surveillance view shrank to a corner of the display, replaced by a complex schematic.

The Bayne 777-200’s internal wiring diagram!