Chapter 233
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Chapter 233: The Devil’s Sacrifice
The movements and formations of the young men showed that they had practiced this many times before, nearly making it instinctive. Their actions were swift and organized, silently suppressing all firepower blind spots, ready to assemble the greatest attack force at any moment.
Scattered among the vehicles, armed guards vigilantly watched their surroundings, protecting the women, children, and unarmed civilians on board.
"Sally, what is happening up ahead?"
An elderly voice came from a battered van ahead, its windows crudely welded with a few rebar rods. This van, like the others, once had a complete windshield and windows, but they had shattered during the journey due to various accidents. Without replacement glass, they could only crudely patch it with steel bars, offering little protection against bullets or snakes.
"Grandpa Mude, the scouts up front said there’s been a battle. They want us to stop for now."
A woman in a veil, carrying a scratched AK-47 on her back, rode a black Yamaha off-road motorcycle through the dust, quickly returning from the front. After a sideways stop, she turned without looking back and said, "I’ll go scout ahead."
Because of the heat, her hand gripping the handlebar of the bike, with her fingers covered by a glove, revealed sun-kissed skin that looked extraordinarily smooth, like milk mixed with golden honey—a very young girl.
"Be careful!" An old man wrapped in a black cloak stepped out of the van, his wrinkled skin dark red, with sparse gray hair sometimes visible under his scarf, exuding a sense of someone who has weathered many hardships.
The roaring off-road motorcycle, with its large, textured tires, kicked up a column of dust and quickly vanished from the old man’s sight. The engine’s sound was unmistakably typical of this motorcycle brand: "Yamaha…"
"Abik!" the old man shouted, carefully looking around while supporting himself against the van door.
"Chief Mude Zaliyev, what is your command?" A sturdy man wearing a white T-shirt, with a long belt of machine gun rounds crisscrossed over his body, ran up from the back of the convoy. He carried a sabre at his waist and a PKM machine gun weighing over ten kilograms, his powerful physique propelling him to the front of the van.
"Take a few men and follow Sally. I’m worried about this girl. Keep an eye on her, and don’t let her get into trouble. This isn’t our old Mica Village."
The leader of the migrating group, former village chief Mude Zaliyev, rolled up his sleeves, revealing numerous old scars covering his arms. He had a handgun tucked into his waist. Despite his age, his hand was steady as he pulled out the gun, displaying the skill of someone who was accustomed to it. With a soft click, the bullet was chambered.
No one dared to be careless in this unfamiliar place; after countless lessons learned through blood and tears, no one knew which pile of rocks or ridge might hide a group of gunmen waiting to open fire.
"Yes, Chief, I’ll take care of it right away." Abik reached behind him, grabbed his PKM, and slung the gun over his shoulder, its ammo box glistening with the oil from careful maintenance. It had been modified, shortening the belt but increasing its firing speed, and could easily connect back to a longer ammo supply.
He waved and shouted to a group a short distance away: "Omar! Bak! Hark! You guys, go follow Sally and make sure she doesn’t get into trouble!"
From a high point on the left side of the convoy, some motorcycle riders responded with calls and revved their engines, roaring off in the direction where Sally had disappeared.
As she approached the sound of gunfire, Sally found a spot, turned off her motorcycle, laid it down out of sight, and grasped her AK-47 tightly. She crouched low, stepping lightly toward the battlefield.
Her desert combat boots were American merchandise, somehow acquired—though they were men’s sizes, they fit her perfectly and accentuated her gallant appearance, showing that she was just as capable as any man.
Cautiously approaching a pile of rocks, she was close to the battlefield, occasionally spotting bullets ricocheting near her like little black dots, jumping between the stones.
Continuous screams of horror echoed around her, and the complex terrain obstructed her view; it seemed to be a one-sided massacre.
Sally could easily tell from the gunfire that all the shooters were using AK-47s, and the bullets were fired in a continuous frenzy.
She carefully peeked around the rocks to see what was happening outside. But just that one glance, once her gaze landed, she couldn’t pull her eyes away.
Indeed, it was exactly as she had feared—a one-sided slaughter. It was a massacre, brutal and horrifying, and one she had never witnessed or dared to imagine before.
About a hundred meters away, she could see very clearly.
This was a slaughter of cold weapons against gunpowder weapons. Since she first held an AK, Sally had never considered that swords and knives could triumph over bullets.
A knight clad in gleaming silver armor wielded a half-body shield in one hand and an oddly shaped long sword in the other, moving at terrifying speed among a group of armed militants, cutting down one life after another with each swing of his sword. The gaping wounds that bullets created paled in comparison to the gruesome deaths caused by being cleaved in half or having a head severed.
The panic-stricken militants weren’t aiming; they were merely shooting for the sake of it. Bullets flew aimlessly, but a few still retained a glimmer of reason—only to find themselves outmatched by the silver-armored knight, watching helplessly as their comrades were slaughtered one after another.
Sally watched, stunned. "Is this still a person?" The knight’s sword techniques were as smooth as cutting melons, slicing through weapons like they were butter.
"Kill him! Take him down!"
"Damn it, he’s a devil!"
"God, oh God, save me! I don’t want to die; I want to live!"
"Don’t be foolish! This monster has already killed dozens of our brothers; he won’t spare us!"
"Don’t freeze! Fire! Fire!"
Amidst the jagged rocks, bodies lay everywhere. The surviving militants desperately pulled triggers, emptying their magazines until they ran out of bullets. Some turned to flee, while others seized knives or daggers, knowing well that would lead to quicker death.
No matter how they aimed or shot, the silver-armored warrior remained untouched, deflecting bullets with his shield, parrying with his sword, or simply dodging aside, as if performing in a movie stunt.
By the time Sally regained her composure, the massacre was over. Looking through her binoculars, she quickly counted the bodies on the ground, tallying a horrifying number: sixty-seven.
Quickly estimating the number of enemies on the battlefield was as essential as calculating the number of bullets left in an enemy’s magazine—you never knew when others might emerge from hiding and start shooting at you.
All sixty-seven became corpses, leaving them to enrich the soil of this desolate land. This scene, amidst the chaos, seemed almost common here.
Their attire was far from that of the good-hearted; in fact, they were all armed militants. In such a region, in such a nation, at such a time, no connection to civilians could be found.
Perhaps it needed no further explanation for anyone to guess the identity of these people easily.
But the one responsible for this slaughter…
"A devil, truly a devil!" Sally murmured to herself, repeating the terrified cries of the militants toward the silver-armored knight. A shiver ran down her spine. If the knight had used a gun to take down those sixty-seven militants, she would have only been shocked; but wielding a shield and sword to slay them surpassed everything her mind could accept, heading toward a mental breakdown.
Filled with fear, Sally swallowed hard but didn’t retract her head; instead, she cautiously observed from a distance, skillfully avoiding the knight’s line of sight.
Although the silver armor looked made from an unknown material, it was scratched and worn but adorned with strange engravings, as if it once had been a finely crafted artifact, now battered and scarred.
In fact, if the J-10 itself was considered an artifact, then its remains, brought down by two missiles, could certainly be described as having endured hardships.
Just as Sally envisioned, although there was a thin layer of disparity from the reality, the essence remained close.
Her heart raced like a drum, thumping loudly, but she held her breath while watching the warrior begin clearing the area.
This silver-armored knight rummaged through the bodies, uncovering some food and water. Upon seeing this, Sally couldn’t help but relax slightly; thankfully, he was human, not a devil, for devils do not need food. But when she saw the knight selected a decent-looking AK-47, her heart instantly dropped. If he could already wield cold weapons so effectively, what would happen if he picked up a gun?
