Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1050 Death Livestream
The whistling sound of a Hellfire missile tearing through the air is the countdown to death.

Song Heping could even feel the oppressive force of the rapidly approaching Grim Reaper chasing after him.

He didn't have time to think. At the critical moment, his body reacted instinctively—his legs pushed off the ground, and he used the last of his strength to leap out of the dry ditch several meters deep in front of the gravel beach!

The world suddenly tilted and tumbled in my field of vision.

The rough surface of the gravel beach stung my cheeks.

He practically crashed into the ditch, his body slamming heavily onto the pebbly bottom. The impact made his vision go black, and a sharp, piercing pain instantly pierced through the old wound in his calf, almost suffocating him.

He curled up, clutching his head tightly, pressing himself into the deepest shadow of the ditch wall.

Now, it's time to gamble with your life!
boom--! ! !
The violent roar and scorching air slammed violently above the riverbed!
The whole earth trembled.

Countless pebbles, clods of earth, and burning vegetation fragments poured down like a torrential rain, crashing onto the bottom of the ditch and his curled-up body.

Dust mixed with gunpowder smoke and a pungent, burnt smell rushed into his mouth and nose, choking him and causing him to cough violently. Each inhalation was accompanied by the smell of blood and a burning sensation.

Large swathes of soil along the edge of the ditch were shaved off, crashing down on him with a dull thud.

The world was left with only deafening roars and suffocating darkness.

Time seemed to freeze in the aftershocks of the explosion.

Song Heping was curled up tightly, his lungs expanding and contracting with difficulty like a broken bellows, each contraction pulling at the wounds all over his body.

Drone control room at Creech Air Force Base, Nevada.

On the huge high-definition screen, the dust, smoke, and flames kicked up by the missile explosion resembled a swirling, filthy yellow mushroom cloud, tightly enveloping the dried-up ditch and the surrounding area of ​​several dozen meters.

The ability of high-precision photoelectric probes to penetrate dust and smoke was also severely hampered, resulting in a chaotic image.

"Target area hit!"

The weapons control officer's voice trembled slightly as he stared intently at the screen, his fingers tapping unconsciously on the edge of the control panel.

"Target...target has entered the explosion's epicenter!"

The drone operator jerked the stick, causing the MQ-9 Reaper drone to hover at a safe distance, its high-precision electro-optical ball under the fuselage firmly locked onto the churning death zone.

The camera kept switching modes, trying to discern any suspicious signs of life from the chaotic patches of color in the thermal imaging and the thick smoke from the visible light camera.

"Zoom in! Zoom in!"

The weapons officer's voice was hoarse.

The image was continuously zoomed in and sharpened.

The dust is slowly settling, and the smoke from the battle is being torn apart and faded by the winds of the plateau.

A huge, charred gash was blasted into the edge of the ditch, and the rubble at the edge was still smoldering.

The bottom of the ditch was a mess, covered with a thick layer of ash and gravel.

Time passed second by second.

Only the faint hum of the equipment and the heavy breathing of the two men remained in the control room.

"Heat source! Heat source signal detected!"

The operator suddenly shouted, his voice rising in tension.

In the center of the thermal imaging screen, a faint, intermittently appearing red spot of light struggled to move among the ashes and gravel at the bottom of the ditch!

Langley, CIA Headquarters Operations Command Center.

The huge tactical screen also displays the real-time footage transmitted back by the drones.

Director Vincent stood motionless in front of the command post, like a stone statue after being stared at by Medusa.

The staff and operations officers behind him were completely silent; the air seemed to have solidified into lead, pressing heavily on everyone's chest.

The faint yet persistent heat source signal on the screen, like a ghost struggling in hellfire, gripped everyone's attention.

"He's still alive?"

Finally, one of the agents couldn't help but whisper.

The sound was exceptionally clear in the deathly silent command room, carrying an almost terrifying sense of absurdity.

Vincent did not answer.

His eyes were fixed on the red spot of light that represented Song Heping's life, and deep within his pupils behind the lenses, a storm was brewing.

The loss of two Black Hawk special operations helicopters worth tens of millions of dollars, and the near annihilation of two of the most elite Delta Force and Ranger squadrons...

If this still allows the target to escape, or if they are merely "possibly alive"...

He was afraid the Pentagon would point its finger at him and yell at him.

"Confirmed! Target's vital signs are weak, but he exists! He is moving!"

The Nevada base weapons officer's voice came through the encrypted channel, filled with near-collapse and horror.

The hearts of everyone in the command center sank.

On the screen, the red spot of light representing Song Heping moved upwards extremely slowly and with great difficulty from the bottom of the ash-covered ditch!

Dust and ash slid off his body like quicksand.

A hand covered in black ash, with knuckles torn and bleeding, was the first to grab onto the scorched earth that had been blasted loose at the edge of the ditch.

Next, the other hand.

Then came half of his body, with an inhuman, tooth-grinding tenacity, slowly pulling himself out of the abyss of death.

Song Heping stood on the gravel beach once again.

The baptism of hellfire at close range completely transformed him into a demon that had crawled back from the blazing hell.

His robes were torn to shreds by the shockwave, the edges curled and charred, revealing skin underneath covered in abrasions, burns, and bloodstains.

His face was a smear of paint mixed with dirt, sweat, and congealed scabs, with only his eyes peeking out through the filthy gaps, burning with an almost insane, icy light.

Each breath was heavy and hoarse, carrying tiny frothy blood droplets that sprayed into the cold air.

He raised his head, his bloodshot eyes locking onto the cold, metallic object hovering in the sky—the MQ-9 "Reaper".

He knew that the high-definition camera under the fuselage was pointed directly at him.

He knew that at this moment, his every subtle movement and every expression was being clearly projected through the satellite link onto the screens at the Nevada Air Force Base and onto the huge screen at the Langley CIA command center.

He grinned, revealing teeth stained with dirt and blood, and laughed silently.

That smile was ferocious, carrying a mockery and provocation from the depths of hell.

Then, he raised his scarred, ash- and blood-stained right hand, towards the sky, towards the drone that represented America's mighty war machine, and slowly, with perfect clarity, raised his blood-stained middle finger!

A blatant, bloody insult that spans half the globe!
"FUCK!!!"

In the Nevada control room, the weapons control officer slammed his fist on the control panel, causing the monitors to shake.

His face flushed red, veins bulged on his neck, and his eyes were fixed on the crystal-clear middle finger gesture on the screen. A tremendous sense of humiliation and powerlessness overwhelmed him instantly.

"That bastard! He's provoking us! Provoking us! Provoking the entire United States of America!"

The drone operator's breathing became heavy, and his palms, gripping the control stick, were covered in cold sweat.

He looked at the figure in the camera lens, who looked like someone who had returned from hell, and a chilling coldness crept up his spine.

The other party was not only alive, but was also declaring his existence and contempt in the most extreme way. He subconsciously looked at the weapon status indicator light—it was empty.

The last Hellfire has been fired.

Now, they are like a crab with its claws cut off, powerless to do anything but watch. This sense of helplessness is even more suffocating than the explosion just now.

Langley, CIA Command Center.

A dead silence.

It had turned into a morgue.

Everyone was stunned by the figure on the screen giving the middle finger.

On the huge tactical screen, Song Heping's blood-stained face, his eyes burning with madness, and his middle finger pointing straight to the sky were magnified to every detail by the high-definition lens, creating an unparalleled impact.

"Oh, God……"

A female analyst covered her mouth, her face turning pale.

Director Vincent swayed slightly, and his face paled even more.

His eyes behind his glasses were sharp as knives, staring intently at Song Heping on the screen. His face was expressionless, but the throbbing veins on his forehead betrayed the turbulent emotions churning within him.

He spoke slowly, word by word, in a cold, almost dreamlike tone:
"This isn't human...this is a fucking monster...a monster crawled out of hell..."

The staff behind him exchanged glances, a chill spreading through them. Vincent's voice wasn't loud, but it pierced the deathly silence of the command room like an icicle.

"Look!"

One of the agents suddenly screamed.

Song Heping withdrew the middle finger that was stained with his own and others' blood.

A cold gaze swept across the carnage before him.

The MH-60M Black Hawk, startled by the thermite and forced to evade, landed crookedly on the edge of a nearby gravel beach, billowing thick smoke.

The fuselage was still burning, and the area near the tail boom was charred and twisted.

Several surviving crew members were scrambling to get away from the massive metal coffin, their faces etched with shock and disbelief.

At the hatch, two special forces soldiers who had been thrown out and injured lay there, groaning in pain and struggling to crawl away.

Closer still, there was the wreckage of the "Black Hawk Down" that he had sent to hell with a grenade.

Its wrecked body smashed a deep crater in the gravel beach, the twisted metal frame burning fiercely, crackling and popping, thick black smoke rising into the sky, emitting a pungent smell of burning flesh and the horrifying stench of charred human flesh.

Flames licked at the scattered parts, weapon fragments, and...

Some unidentifiable lumps.

Even hell couldn't be more beautiful than this.

On the edge of this burning hell, several U.S. special forces soldiers were scattered, some having fallen from the sky or been thrown out by the shockwave of the explosion.

They were dressed in the same desert camouflage, but the ruthlessness of the elite was gone.

Some lay on their backs, their bodies twisted unnaturally, motionless, with dark red pools of blood beneath them; others clutched their broken legs or arms, emitting suppressed, dying screams amidst the torment of excruciating pain and blood loss.

Song Heping's gaze was like a cold probe, precisely scanning every figure that could still move. Then he drew his loaded Glock 17 pistol and, without the slightest hesitation, resolutely walked toward the nearest target.

That was a Delta Force member trying to climb toward the wreckage for cover.

His lower leg was severed at the knee by shrapnel from the explosion; the cut was a bloody mess, and blood continued to seep out, leaving a long, glaring dark red trail on the rubble.

He heard heavy, slow footsteps behind him, like a death knell, and turned around abruptly.

What came into his view was Song Heping's face, completely covered by murderous intent, and those eyes that were devoid of any human emotion, like polar ice.

Fear gripped his heart instantly, making him forget the excruciating pain of his broken leg, leaving only his most primal instinct for survival.

He let out a beast-like howl, his hand reaching for his thigh, searching for a weapon to defend himself.

Song Heping raised his hand and fired a shot into his face.

bah—

The drone control room at the Nevada base.

In the center of the high-definition screen, every minute movement of Song Heping drawing his gun and firing was clearly captured.

The weapons control officer's eyes widened instantly, his pupils dilating in extreme horror.

He lunged at the communicator, screaming into the microphone, his voice completely distorted by extreme fear and rage:
"He's executing our wounded! FUCK!!! Stop him! Call in air support! Call in ground troops! Anyone who can move! Hurry!!!"

His screams echoed in the control room, carrying a sense of desperate collapse.

The drone operator was deathly pale, but could only stare at the screen in vain.

The MQ-9's weapon racks were empty, and the high-definition probe faithfully performed its mission, broadcasting an impending massacre live to the world's most powerful air force base in the clearest and most brutal way.

Langley, CIA Command Center.

On the huge tactical screen, Song Heping's figure, holding a gun and firing, was firmly locked onto by the high-definition camera.

At that moment, the muzzle of the Glock 17 was slowly moving down, pointing at the back of the head of another seriously wounded Delta Force member.

Time seemed to be stretched out infinitely and frozen.

Director Vincent's hands, which were resting on the table, were trembling slightly and uncontrollably.

Some of the agents behind him instinctively held their breath, some painfully closed their eyes, and some stared intently at the screen, their facial muscles twitching.

"Sir..."

A young intelligence officer's voice trembled, on the verge of tears, "He...he can't..."

Vincent neither turned around nor spoke.

He just stared intently at the screen, at the figure about to pull the trigger.

The gaze behind the glasses was both extremely cold and extremely complex.

anger?
humiliation?

fear?

still is……

A trace of something he himself was unwilling to admit, a feeling towards this opponent who was terrifyingly tenacious and inhumanly ruthless...

fear?

In the video, Song Heping's index finger remained constantly on the cold trigger.

On the pebble beach, even the wind seemed to have stopped howling.

The Delta Force member with the broken leg seemed to sense something was wrong; he reached for his weapon, only to find his hand was broken...

So he could only turn to look at Song Heping, a desperate smile on his face.

Song Heping's eyes remained unwavering as his index finger, resting on the trigger, steadily and resolutely pulled it back!

boom!
A muffled, short gunshot ripped through the deathly silence of the plateau!
The 9mm Parabellum pistol bullet easily pierced the Delta Force member's skull at a distance of less than one meter.

The flash of gunfire was fleeting, like a sinister grin that appeared only briefly in hell.

The Delta Force member's body jerked forward, then went limp like a puppet with its strings cut, lying motionless on the cold gravel.

Dark red blood mixed with grayish-white fluid gushed rapidly from the wound on his head, soaking the ground beneath him.

The footage clearly captured the slight tremor of the head the moment the bullet entered the skull, and the final twitching of the body as life abruptly ended.

　Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket! Asking for a monthly ticket!

　　
　
(End of this chapter)