Chapter Seventy: Massacre (V)

Thunder moved through the jungle, lurking, running, ambushing, and killing. When he lay in wait, no one could trace his presence; when he ran, his figure streaked like a bolt of black lightning; when he launched a sudden assault, he seemed to descend like thunder from the heavens, and each strike was followed by a body falling in response.

In the thick, impenetrable black fog, he was like a specter from another world, a demon from hell, or perhaps a reaper clad in a dark robe, wielding a scythe, harvesting lives with ease and speed. The most terrifying aspect was that all of this unfolded under Thunder's meticulous control. Through his deliberate guidance, the remaining six members of the assault team had unwittingly shifted their direction, drawn toward the area not far from Ark Bevin.

Sergeant Connor could barely control his squad anymore. He had no way of knowing how many enemies there were, where they lurked, or when they would leap from the darkness to launch a deadly attack. In the black jungle, blind shooting was tantamount to signaling their position to the enemy—a death wish. Yet to cease fire would be to disarm themselves, like a tiger declawed, awaiting the end.

Connor had tried to contact Ark Bevin, but apart from a brief exchange amid intense noise before entering the dark fog, there had been no further communication. He had considered ordering a swift retreat, but in this cursed fog, even the magnetic field seemed disrupted; compasses failed to show the correct direction. After wandering in the forest for ages and sacrificing two lives, the team found themselves circling in place.

With no other options, Connor ordered his soldiers to form a dense, circular defensive formation, like a turtle withdrawing its head into its shell, or a frightened hedgehog curling up, exposing its sharp spines, inching forward slowly and cautiously.

Yet even this could not halt the enemy's relentless harvest. In just half an hour, ten Poseidon assault team members had fallen forever in the blood-soaked jungle. Once, that devilish adversary even launched an attack head-on, slashed a soldier, and retreated with calm composure.

Connor was furious, yet he was also fearful and deeply frustrated. When had the famed, battle-hardened Poseidon Assault Team's sixth squad ever been so humiliated?

A tangle of emotions seized his heart, as if gripped by some invisible force, suffocating him, plunging him into a momentary lapse.

It was this very lapse that sealed Connor's fate.

Thunder lay hidden in a patch of grass, watching as the last six assault team members passed by, the closest less than a meter away, oblivious to his presence. He felt a surge of pride: “My stealth skills really are unmatched, truly untamed!”

But now was not the time for pride. Thunder rose silently, drifting behind Connor like a wisp of fog. His left arm pressed lightly against Connor’s face, while his right arm swept gently—“Thunderbolt” softly sliced across Connor's throat.

The battle axe’s razor-sharp blade sliced effortlessly through the high-strength nylon neck guard, through the anti-cut steel plate within, and reached Connor’s throat...

Connor, on edge and wary, after his brief lapse, suddenly sensed a chilling murderous aura enveloping him. The icy breath of cold steel invaded his flesh, his hair standing on end. Instinctively, he jerked his head back, just as Thunderbolt breached the anti-cut steel plate, dodging the fatal strike to his throat.

Thunderbolt skimmed past, severing Connor’s carotid artery. Blood gushed forth.

Yet that instinctive dodge spared his vocal cords. As his strength waned, Connor summoned his last reserves, gripping Thunder’s left hand with his left and shouting hoarsely, “Fire!”

The commotion startled the nearby assault team. They saw the sergeant grappling with a shadowy figure and heard his furious roar, but hesitated for a second—should they fire at their own sergeant?

That second of hesitation was Connor’s despair. Feeling his strength ebbing, he realized there was no time for indecision. He summoned his last ounce of energy, yanked the grenade pinned to his camouflaged uniform, and screamed a dying command, “Run—”

But it was already too late. In less than a second, Thunder twisted Connor’s left hand, shattering bone. The next moment, Thunder hurled Connor’s body high, casting him ten meters away.

“Boom!” The grenade exploded on Connor, shrapnel and steel beads spraying in all directions, more than half embedding in his own body, riddling him like a sieve. Immediately, the ammunition carried by Connor detonated—bullets, grenades, plastic explosives erupted in a thunderous blast. Amid his agonized screams, Connor’s body became a blazing fireball before it even hit the ground.

Yet this desperate act bought precious reaction time for the remaining squad members. Illuminated by the explosion, the five surviving soldiers scattered, rapidly forming an assault formation, their weapons unleashing a continuous barrage, weaving an impenetrable crossfire, pouring bullets furiously toward Thunder’s position.

“Damn, I got careless!” As Thunder tossed Connor, he dove to the ground, cursing his own negligence while his body rolled swiftly, evading the storm of bullets raining down.

There was no time to retrieve the 21-model sniper rifle strapped to his back. Thunder rolled, released Thunderbolt, which hurtled like lightning toward the most threatening machine gunner.

“Thud!” The battle axe flew dozens of meters, smashed into the gunner’s face, and propelled him through the air, landing heavily on the ground. The hail of bullets immediately thinned.

Almost simultaneously, Thunder drew his sidearm from between his legs, “Bang! Bang!”—a bullet pierced the brow of another assault team member, who collapsed backward, his automatic rifle firing a useless volley skyward.

After the initial chaos, the remaining team members had regrouped, launching their trademark “Hellfire” crossfire, covering each other in rotation. But to their shock, amid the blaze, the mysterious black figure, just dozens of meters away, seemed immune to their firepower. Despite the storm of bullets tracking him, he rolled and dodged with superhuman agility, not a single round finding its mark.

Moments later, his right hand swept, and their machine gun fell silent; another comrade dropped, and the dense firepower faltered.

Without waiting for them to react, Thunder’s submachine gun swung from his waist. Republic-issued 5.8mm rounds spat from its barrel at 1200 rounds per minute, forming a tongue of fire.

That fiery tongue seemed to have eyes, each bullet biting into flesh. Before a magazine emptied, the last three Poseidon assault team members lay lifeless.

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The explosions and gunfire echoed faintly in Ark Bevin’s ears. Although the cursed, eerie fog muffled the sound, making it impossible to judge the distance, Ark Bevin knew it could not be far. More importantly, it must be Connor’s squad, having discovered the enemy and engaged fiercely.

If only he could reach the battlefield in time, to form a pincer attack...

That thought rekindled his spirit, sparking one last hope. He had only six combat-ready soldiers left; by regulations, his squad was already considered lost. Completing the mission was now beyond him, but even in death, he vowed to bite the enemy hard before the end!

Ark Bevin and his six soldiers—a classic seven-man Poseidon Assault Team formation—advanced straight toward the gunfire.

But just seconds later, the gunfire ceased.

Ark Bevin stopped abruptly, shouting into the radio, “Connor! Connor!”

Only static and signal noise answered him. His face turned pale; he knew his last hope had vanished—he dared not even imagine the remote possibility that Connor’s squad had vanquished the enemy.

“Retreat!” Ark Bevin ordered, his voice trembling. The demoralized soldiers fled toward the direction they had come, as if pursued by demons, thinking only to escape this man-eating jungle.

“Bang!” As they ran, a team member was struck by a large-caliber sniper round; his neck exploded, his body lifted by the force and slammed to the ground, dead before he could convulse.

“He’s here!” Ark Bevin’s heart sank to the abyss.

Hundreds of meters away, Thunder stood amid the grass, the stock of his 21-model sniper rifle pressed to his shoulder, a wicked smile on his face: “Damn, using a large-caliber sniper rifle at this range really is a bit cruel—”