Unexpected Mishap

A fragment of a paddle blade, about half a meter long, spun through the air toward Hou Rui, finally landing with a metallic clang and embedding itself deeply into the road surface, mere centimeters from his nose. Hou Rui could almost see the reflection of his own face in the blade, illuminated by the flames.

As Hou Rui nearly lost control from fright, the Apache helicopter above had already circled halfway, its nose now aimed at the hill where the Elf was positioned. In the next instant, the Gatling gun unleashed its deadly roar, sending a line of sand and gravel flying from the ground, rapidly stretching toward the hilltop.

The Apache continued its barrage, and after several seconds, as if still not satisfied, it fired a cluster rocket at the hill, turning it into a raging inferno with a thunderous explosion.

The Elf watched as his comrades were obliterated before his eyes. Hou Rui felt all the blood in his body rush to his head. He scrambled to his feet, pressing his 09 shotgun against the back of an American soldier who had just descended by rope, and without hesitation, pulled the trigger. The unlucky soldier fell forward, and by the time he hit the ground, his lower back and hips were nothing but a ghastly, bloody hole.

Enraged, Hou Rui paid no mind to the other American soldiers nearby. He fired wildly at the Apache overhead while quickly cycling the shotgun, emptying its magazine in mere seconds.

Had it not been for the other team members joining in the firefight, Hou Rui would surely have been eliminated by the remaining three American soldiers. Yet, just as he was about to reload his shotgun, a bullet suddenly struck his shoulder, knocking him backward onto the ground.

The searing pain brought Hou Rui back to his senses. Turning his head, he saw that the surviving American soldiers from the Chinook had already charged forward, now only 670 meters away from Hou Rui and his group. The survivors, including Little Tommy, were desperately fighting back from behind the wrecked vehicles.

A dramatic shift unfolded on the road. The Americans, with their numerical advantage, formed two interlaced skirmish lines, slowly forcing Hou Rui and his companions behind the narrow shelter of the vehicle wreckage, on the verge of wiping them out.

Misfortune compounded as the Apache returned to finish the job, its Gatling gun shredding the boar behind a Humvee wreck into two pieces. As the Apache circled back once more, its sights locked onto Little Tommy; only a last-minute roll saved him from certain death.

Before he could regain his footing, Little Tommy threw caution to the wind, abandoning cover to fire a rifle grenade skyward, aiming to take down the Apache.

The muffled thumps of the grenades sounded like champagne corks popping, but what Tommy launched were not harmless stoppers—they were deadly messengers of fate. Perhaps Hou Rui's group was not meant to die, for one of Tommy's grenades struck the Apache's tail rotor by sheer luck. A flash lit the sky, and the once-arrogant Apache now wobbled unsteadily, struggling to maintain balance before reluctantly retreating.

"Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!" Little Tommy cheered, pumping his fist. But as he prepared to crouch, a sudden burst of bullets struck him.

He groaned and collapsed. Hou Rui, not far from his position, hurriedly crawled over.

Hou Rui first drew his pistol, firing blindly at the approaching Americans to buy a little time, then looked down at Tommy. Tommy had been shot in the abdomen—probably at close range, the bullet had pierced his body armor. Blood was pouring out uncontrollably.

"How is it? Can you hold on?" Hou Rui pressed Tommy's hand to his wound, but in the blink of an eye, his own palm was soaked in blood.

Tommy could no longer speak, only staring helplessly at Hou Rui with wide eyes.

A stray bullet grazed Hou Rui's helmet, ricocheting who knows where, but the close call made Hou Rui realize he could not afford to be sentimental. Even if someone died in his arms, he had to steel his heart—otherwise, he might be the next to fall.

Hou Rui grabbed the 40mm grenade launcher beside Tommy and fired at the top of the American skirmish line, but only heard the hollow click of an empty chamber. No ammunition. Frustrated, Hou Rui discarded the launcher and raised his pistol again. The moment he poked his head out from behind the wreckage, a hail of bullets greeted him.

The wreckage sparked under the barrage, forcing Hou Rui to retreat once more. He extended only his hand, firing the pistol blindly until the magazine was spent. As he withdrew his hand, a bullet narrowly grazed his wrist, leaving a bloody mark.

By now, the American skirmish line had advanced to within 450 meters. The dense fire made it impossible for Hou Rui to effectively return fire; his only option was to shoot blindly, hoping to slow their advance with the sound of gunfire. But this desperate tactic was about to fail—once the Americans flanked from other angles, Hou Rui's fate would be sealed.

With the situation dire, Hou Rui pulled out a high-explosive grenade and threw it, the explosion buying him a little more time. Yet the downside was immediate: an American sergeant, hiding from the blast, grabbed a private armed with a Javelin launcher, pointed at the wreckage where Hou Rui was hiding, and shouted, "Blow him up!"

The private dropped to one knee, removed the launcher from his back, and began to aim. As the sergeant yelled "Explosion incoming," nearby American soldiers scrambled clear. The sergeant slapped the private's helmet, signaling to fire.

But someone was faster than the private.

Behind the American skirmish line, a swarm of Afghan militants had quietly emerged. Several leaders quickly set up 60mm mortars on the ground; an elder with a black headscarf gauged the distance and trajectory with practiced hands, and the mortars thundered to life, sending shells raining down on the Americans.

The sudden barrage stunned the Americans. As they turned to face the threat, the militants charged forward, their numbers—560 strong—nearly triple the Americans'. Worse yet, the mortars continued their relentless bombardment, with shrapnel tearing through the skirmish line.

"It's reinforcements! Our reinforcements!" one of Hou Rui's teammates cried out, voice trembling with relief. Yet Hou Rui, who had narrowly escaped death, dared not relax for a moment—who knew what other twists awaited?

Hou Rui quickly reloaded his 09 shotgun, then picked up an M16 and began to mercilessly gun down the retreating Americans. As the skirmish line was shredded, only a handful of Americans remained. Suddenly, Hou Rui's radio crackled to life.

"Careful, the Tajiks aren't here to help—they're after the spoils."

"Elf, you're alive?" Hou Rui was genuinely overjoyed to hear the voice.

"No time for chatter. Prepare to repel the Tajik tribe's attack. We're low on manpower, and I'm afraid they'll get greedy and decide to swallow us whole." The Elf warned gravely.

"But we're down to just a few, and they've got dozens, plus mortars!" Firelight, who had been hiding somewhere, chimed in.

"I'll handle the mortars; you deal with the infantry," Elf replied without hesitation.

Hou Rui quickly coordinated with Firelight and Possum. "How do we fight? Should we set up positions before they've finished off the Americans?"

"Useless, they're too many. Far too many!" Possum remained pessimistic.

"Maybe I have a way, but I need time," Firelight finally offered a glimmer of hope.

"How long?"

"At least two minutes."

"Alright, Possum and I will hold them off. You hurry," Hou Rui said, pulling out all his high-explosive grenades and placing two M16s at his side, preparing for a stubborn defense.

Relying on their numbers and mortar support, Ram's armed militia finally annihilated the Americans. But by now, over twenty minutes had passed since the battle began, and Hou Rui estimated that American reinforcements would soon arrive. Yet, he was now pinned down by the Tajik tribe—a frustrating predicament.

Still hiding behind the vehicle wreckage, Hou Rui watched as more and more figures emerged in the darkness, his palms slick with sweat. Once the last American's gun fell silent, the militia began to scour the battlefield, expertly stripping the fallen of their weapons and gear, and gathering the wounded survivors.

At this moment, Ram himself appeared—a man Hou Rui had met briefly before. He now wore a black robe over a camouflage tactical vest, brandishing a gleaming silver Desert Eagle pistol, surrounded by his men as he strode into the field and faced the wounded Americans.

Ram spoke at length in a chaotic stream, yet Hou Rui, who did not understand Pashto, only hoped he would linger, ideally for another twenty-three minutes—that would be perfect. Unfortunately, after a round of wild shouting and firing into the air, Ram executed the American wounded one by one, then led his troops toward the truck where Hou Rui waited.