Chapter Sixty-Two: The Scout's Tragedy

It was nearly half past five in the morning. The sea wind, which blew across the water every day, was only growing stronger. Trees and thickets on the island swayed incessantly under the gusts, their rustling merging into a persistent howl—a perfect cover for Wuyun as he concealed his movements.

To close in on the enemy and launch a surprise attack within eight minutes was no easy task. Wuyun had no choice but to quicken his pace. Compared to his usual training, his movements now were more pronounced, but the rustling and swaying of the tall grass in the wind masked any unnatural sounds, leaving his approach completely unnoticed.

Now, Wuyun was closing in on his first target: a three-man combat team positioned on the left side of the ridge. They were lying low in a patch of grass. One was a sniper, cradling a .50 caliber rifle, the butt pressed against his shoulder, his eye glued to the scope. Beside him, the spotter swept the sea with a single-lens infrared monocular, his gaze never resting. Ten meters diagonally behind them, the machine gunner gripped his Model 32 machine gun tightly, eyes sharp as he scanned from side to side. None of them realized that a deadly ambush was about to descend upon them.

Wuyun was now less than three meters behind the machine gunner, hidden in the grass. With his keen eyesight, he could make out the distinctive shoulder patch on the man's left arm: Poseidon of the Poseidon Assault Team, brandishing a trident.

Holding his breath, Wuyun carefully plucked a stalk of grass from the earth, root and all. With a flick of his middle finger, the hardened root flew like an arrow, striking the machine gunner just behind the right ear.

The man let go of his weapon with his right hand to slap at his ear, grumbling, "Damn mosquitoes..."

This was the moment Wuyun had been waiting for. As the machine gunner's attention was distracted and his hand left the trigger, Wuyun burst from the grass like a leopard. With a swift, powerful chop to the carotid artery, he silenced the man before he could finish his complaint or even move his hand from his ear. The world went black for the machine gunner, and he collapsed soundlessly to the ground.

The faint noise caught the attention of the other two, but before they could react, Wuyun's right hand flashed. The combat knife that had just hung at his waist, now an extension of his will, drove straight through the spotter’s neck from behind, pinning him to the earth as blood welled from his throat.

Without pause, Wuyun moved low, almost flying across the ground. He was on the sniper before the man could utter a sound, his left hand clamping the sniper’s mouth, his right hand wrenching the man’s head in a sharp, expert motion. With a sickening crack, the sniper's head twisted a hundred and eighty degrees, his body falling limply to the ground.

One second.

From the moment he leapt to strike down the machine gunner, dispatched the spotter, and finally snapped the sniper’s neck, Wuyun had completed this dazzling sequence in less than a second.

Several hundred meters away, Song Jingang, watching Wuyun’s every move, saw only a blur—and the three famed Poseidon commandos were dead, their bodies sprawled on the ground.

"Brilliant!" Luo Haoran muttered in awe. Even after four years of constant training together, he had never imagined Wuyun would become this formidable.

But Song Jingang’s satisfaction was short-lived.

"Next time, don’t assign me any more backstabbing jobs like this!" Wuyun’s soft grumble came through the earpiece.

"Why not?"

"It just feels a bit dishonorable."

"Then why the hell do you always volunteer?"

"Because," Wuyun whispered smugly as he slipped toward his next target, "dishonorable as it may be, it beats sitting on the sidelines, watching you eat all the cake…"

Song Jingang was nearly driven mad—Wuyun never passed up a chance to argue, and after four years of this, even a battlefield full of danger couldn't shut him up. As Wuyun began another tirade, Song Jingang cut him off. "Cut the crap. Direction two o’clock, one hundred and twenty meters. Next target!"

"You’re getting duller by the day," Wuyun quipped before silently moving towards his next mark.

Sergeant Singer of the Poseidon Assault Team’s Sixth Squad, Bevin Company, was a native of Indiana. Years of hunting and homesteading in the deep forests with his father and uncles, combined with extensive combat experience after joining the unit, had granted him an almost preternatural sixth sense for danger. Intelligent, accurate in his judgments, agile, and an expert marksman, Singer was often chosen as scout—leading the way, reconnoitering, and clearing obstacles for the main force.

Now, Singer was about five hundred meters ahead of the main unit, moving carefully through the dense woods.

Since the main assault team landed from the northwest, Singer had felt as though something was watching him, just as he had been stalked by beasts in the forests during his childhood. The sensation made his skin crawl and chilled him to the bone.

Ahead, the forest opened into a small clearing—no more than five hundred square meters, but in such dense cold-temperate woods, it was a significant gap. It looked like a good place to rest—or a perfect spot for an enemy to concentrate fire from the surrounding forest. Yet Singer wasn't especially worried; intelligence suggested the enemy force numbered no more than ten. Ten men, against a whole company of Poseidon commandos attacking from multiple directions, could only harass and stall for time, hoping for reinforcements.

But with the Red Republic’s limited capacity for force projection, their reinforcements would arrive far too late. By then, Singer would be back in his bunk, enjoying a hot shower and a good night’s sleep. Even if the Red Republic’s transport planes managed to take off, Minia Federation’s naval and air forces would make things very difficult for them. Of course, that might provoke a confrontation between the world’s two greatest powers, or even war—but that was for the politicians sipping tea in Washington to worry about. Singer’s task was simple: find the enemy and eliminate them, one by one.

He carefully scouted the area, confirming there were no enemies or mines. The footage from his helmet-mounted infrared visor was transmitted back to his captain, Ark Bevin, along with his recommendation to rest in the clearing for five minutes. The captain agreed and ordered him to stand guard.

Singer exhaled in relief and walked over to a large tree a few meters away, hoping to rest and calm his nerves before resuming his duties as scout in five minutes.

The tree was about sixty centimeters in diameter—quite a rarity in the cold-temperate forest, Singer thought with admiration. Even more delightful, there was a two-meter-high hollow at the base—a perfect shelter from wind and rain.

But as he approached the hollow, Singer was suddenly confronted with an unbelievable sight.

There, less than ten centimeters from his body, was a face. Most of it was obscured by camouflage paint, but the mocking smile was impossible to hide.

"Impossible—" Singer’s mouth fell open; he tried to warn his captain, but had no chance. He felt a sudden chill at his throat, followed by a searing pain that spread through his body, down to the marrow.

As consciousness faded, he finally understood why he’d felt so uneasy all along. He realized he might have led his company into a death trap.

Bei Shiliang gently caught Singer’s body before it could fall and make a sound. He tapped twice on his throat-microphone, signaling the target was down. A few seconds later, two sets of tapping echoed in his earpiece—Luo Haoran and Lang Tianyu confirming their own targets had been dealt with.

Bei Shiliang laid Singer’s body on the ground, positioning him so he appeared to be napping against the tree. He made a few adjustments under Singer’s body, then dug and scraped in several inconspicuous places. After a minute, he listened intently, then vanished like a wraith into the forest.

Captain Bevin, leading his fifty men out of the woods, immediately spotted Singer "dozing" against a distant tree.

"Oh, the poor kid," Bevin chuckled warmly. The unit had been marching hard for over forty minutes, and everyone was tired—especially their scout, Singer. Snatching moments of rest whenever possible was key to maintaining stamina in protracted operations.

He expected that in a couple minutes, the quiet young man would wake up and be ready to move again. What Captain Bevin didn’t know was that Singer would never wake again—and that his entire company was on the brink of annihilation.

Unaware of his fate, Bevin signaled for the men to form a defensive ring and sit down to rest. Singer’s partner, the big Black soldier Barclay, quietly walked over to his sleeping friend, ready to share a harmless smile—unaware that tragedy already lay in wait.