Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1074 Still alive, that's good...

"There are too many of them..."

Nassin climbed to Song Heping's side, leaned against a rock, and panted heavily, saying, "We're running out of men..."

Song Heping looked around.

The north bank position was no longer what it used to be.

The sturdy rock bunkers were repeatedly shelled flat and shattered.

The fortifications, simply built with stones and sand, were riddled with holes.

Of the three hundred once-energetic suicide squad members around him, only... remained.

Approximately fifty people.

These fifty people were all injured and exhausted.

Many people, wrapped in blood-soaked, dirty bandages, leaned against the bodies of their comrades, mechanically loading the last few bullets into their empty magazines.

Ammunition, especially heavy machine gun bullets and RPGs, is running low.

Song Heping leaned against the remaining half of the rock, his shoulders numb and stiff from holding the gun against him for so long.

He licked his dry, bleeding lips and pulled out the last SVD magazine from his waist.

Samir, dragging a leg badly torn open by shrapnel, limped over to Song Heping, his voice hoarse and almost inaudible: "Boss... bullets... only half a box of PKM left... DShK... completely dead... barrel... exploded..."

His bloodshot eyes were filled with despair.

Nasin's face was now ashen. He added, "The water... we're out of water... the medicine... we're all gone... Song, should we... should we retreat? They can afford to hold out, but we... we can't hold on any longer!"

"Cannot withdraw."

Song Heping gave his answer without hesitation.

Nassin suddenly reached out and grabbed Song Heping's arm, his fingers trembling slightly, his voice trembling with tears: "Song! Let's go! While we still have some strength, we...we must break through! Run towards the mountains on the northern border! Every one of us who can escape is one more chance! Staying here...only leads to death!"

His eyes were filled with the instinct for survival and the fear of impending destruction.

The other suicide squad members who heard the sound also turned to look at Song Heping, a faint light burning in their eyes—an instinctive desire for "life" born of despair.

Song Heping's gaze slowly swept over the tired faces around him.

His gaze was unusually calm. He did not answer Nassin immediately, but instead picked up his binoculars again to carefully observe the opposite bank.

There were many figures behind the south bank positions, and although they showed obvious signs of fatigue, their numbers were still large.

He put down his binoculars, then suddenly drew his pistol and pressed it against Nassin's head.

"From this moment forward, the word 'escape' is forbidden!"

His voice wasn't loud, but it reached everyone's ears clearly:

"Run? Where to run?"

He pointed to the steep, bare mountain wall behind him.

"With just these few dozen wounded soldiers, no water, no food, no ammunition, while Ihassan has at least eight hundred to a thousand men, along with their pickup trucks and machine guns... Can we outrun their wheels? Can we outrun their bullets?"

His words were cold and realistic, like a hammer shattering the glimmer of hope that had just ignited in the hearts of Nassin and the others.

"Look at the riverbed!"

Song Heping pointed to the dead zone below, where corpses were piled up like mountains.

"We held out for four hours! How many bodies did they leave behind here? Two thousand? Or even more!"

He paused for a moment, his gaze sharp as a knife.

"Of our three hundred men, fifty are left. And them? They traded over two thousand lives for our two hundred and fifty! They will pay for our blood twentyfold! Retreat now? Ihassan isn't stupid! When he sees us abandon our position and turn to run, he'll immediately understand—we're not luring them in; we're at our wits' end! We don't even have the strength to bite the last time!"

His gaze shifted to the location of the 1515 armed force, his eyes burning with an almost manic light: "As long as we remain here! As long as our guns are still firing! Even if it's just sporadic gunfire! Ihassan will always be suspicious! He'll wonder, why were three hundred men able to hold out against him for hours, killing two thousand of his men? Why aren't we collapsing? We must have a backup plan! We must have reinforcements he doesn't know about! Or perhaps, we're just a bunch of madmen, fearless madmen! He can't afford to gamble! He can't afford to drag this out! His men, watching their comrades fall like harvested wheat, watching the 'Martyr's Battalion' be wiped out, their fear is no less than ours! They are also on the verge of collapse!"

Song Heping's voice suddenly rose, carrying a seductive power: "Four hours! Enough time for fear to take root in their hearts! They are more afraid than we are! Afraid that our 'reinforcements' will suddenly appear from behind the mountain! Afraid that we 'madmen' can drag hundreds more of them down to hell before we die! Their commander is even more afraid! He is afraid of losing this pursuit, afraid of not being able to explain to his superiors! He is afraid of me!"

He pointed to his chest. "He knows my name, he knows my methods! He must be behind his binoculars right now, nervously guessing what I'll do next! He's afraid! Fear leads to hesitation, and hesitation leads to mistakes!"

He looked around at the warriors whose last flame had been ignited by his words: "Now, it's a gamble! A gamble on whether Ihassan Ken has the guts to use his last thousand men to gnaw on our fifty wounded, out-of-ammunition, but ready-to-bite-off-himself soldiers! A gamble on whether he dares to risk his future and his life to see if there are any ambushes behind us! I bet he—he won't!"

No one spoke.

Everyone was quietly pondering what Song Heping had just said.

After saying that, Song Heping put away his pistol and patted Nassin on the shoulder: "Remember, only those who are not afraid to die have the right to live!"

Samir slammed his fist into the sandbag beside him, kicking up a cloud of dust. His eyes were bloodshot as he roared, "Song is right! If we run, we're sheep! If we stay, we're wolves! Even if we die, we'll knock out all the teeth of those scumbags from 1515! Let them have nightmares for the rest of their lives! Brothers! Hold on! God is watching us!"

"Hold on!"

"Let's fight them! Let's gamble!"

"Let Ihassan taste the nightmare!"

The last embers of despair in the eyes of the final fifty suicide squad members were ignited by Song Heping's words.

They no longer thought about breaking through, no longer thought about a way to survive; they only wanted to become the hardest bone in their final moments and get stuck in the throat of the 1515 militants!

South bank, behind the earthen slope of the command post.

Ihassan put down his binoculars; the lenses were covered in sweat and dust.

He took out a handkerchief and vigorously wiped his forehead, which was covered in cold sweat.

At this moment, his face looked extremely pale.

His hands were trembling slightly.

It wasn't anger, but an emotion he tried desperately to suppress but couldn't eradicate—fear.

Through the telescope, on the scorched battlefield on the north bank, the smoke of battle had not yet dissipated.

He saw those shadowy figures, few in number and weary, yet still active, still building rudimentary fortifications.

In a daze, he seemed to see that figure—the "devil of Asara Town," a Chinese man whose real name was Song Heping.

Four hours have passed!
A full four hours!

He mobilized more than 2,500 people!
The elite commando team was decimated, and the most fanatical "Martyr Battalion" of 500 men was wiped out.

Ordinary infantrymen charged forward like oil being poured in, falling wave after wave onto the damned riverbed of the dry sand river.

Corpses piled up like mountains, and blood flowed like rivers. But that tiny piece of land on the north bank was like a stubborn rock that could not be chewed or broken.

Three hundred people!
Only three hundred people!
How can it be?

How could they possibly hold on for so long?
How could such horrific casualties have been caused?
"Leader, the 7th and 9th attack squads have been repelled again...the casualties...are heavy."

The adjutant's voice sounded behind him, tinged with undisguised exhaustion and a hint of...fear, "Brothers...morale is low. Many say...that the other side is a devil...an unkillable devil...that they are protected by Allah..."

"Shut up!"

Ihassan whirled around, growling in a low voice, his eyes behind his glasses flashing with an uneasy, menacing light. "What demons! What protection! They are the enemy! The enemy that must be eliminated! God protects us!"

He was tough on the outside, but inside he was screaming: "Devil?"
Maybe it really is!
That Song Heping!
He must be the embodiment of the devil!
He had heard of this man before, and his terrifying record on multiple battlefields.

It was said that the person went to Africa, so why did they suddenly appear here?

Correct!
Suddenly, a name flashed through Ihassan's mind—Nasreddin!

Nasreddin of the Revolutionary Guard.

Song Heping had been flirting with the Persians for a long time.

There have been persistent rumors that the Persians would intervene in the situation in Ilig.

Is it true?
Otherwise, why would he be here?
What other tricks does he have up his sleeve?
Thinking of this, Ihassan broke out in a cold sweat again, and his face turned gloomy.

The adjutant stammered, not daring to say anything more.

Another intelligence officer leaned closer, his voice even lower: "Sir... news just came from the rear... our reconnaissance team we sent to the flank... has lost contact. And... there are rumors that the Americans might intervene... although the information is uncertain, but..."

"what?!"

Ihassan's heart skipped a beat!
Flanking maneuver lost?

Is the US going to get involved?

This was like the last straw that broke the camel's back.

He suddenly raised his binoculars again and looked toward the north bank.

Under the setting sun, the battlefield looked particularly eerie.

Those sparse figures seemed to him to be countless soldiers lurking in the shadows.

He seemed to see that if he continued to waste time here, he would be drawn into a conspiracy that would lead to utter destruction...

Cold sweat instantly soaked his back.

Fear, like cold venom, relentlessly eroded his reason and courage.

Can't lose!
He can't afford to lose this chase!

He couldn't possibly risk his life and his last remaining capital here!
"Sir, should we... organize another attack? It's getting dark..."

The adjutant cautiously sought instructions.

Ihassan's body trembled violently.

He abruptly put down his binoculars, then looked around at his equally exhausted subordinates, whose eyes were filled with fear and confusion.

He saw the mountains of his own soldiers' corpses piled up on the riverbed, and the north bank positions under the setting sun that looked like the entrance to hell.

Do not!
We can't go any further!
This is a trap!
definitely is!

Song Heping, that devil, is just waiting for me to pour my last bit of strength into him!
"withdraw…"

Ihassan's voice was hoarse and trembling with barely concealed pain as he said, "Retreat... Order all troops... to provide alternating cover... immediately... immediately withdraw from the battle! Retreat! Retreat now!"

He practically roared out the last two words, as if he had used up all his strength, and then felt a wave of dizziness as if he were about to collapse.

The order to retreat spread like wildfire across the south bank positions.

The 1515 militants, already on the verge of collapse from fear and casualties, were overjoyed and began to rush back in a chaotic and scramble.

The pickup truck roared to life, kicking up clouds of dust, as it carried panicked soldiers away from the valley of death that had claimed so many lives.

Their panicked state was like that of a stray dog.

North bank position.

"They...they withdrew?"

Samir's voice trembled, filled with disbelief.

He struggled to climb to the edge of the fortification and looked towards the opposite bank.

Dust billowed as people fled in disarray, no one even glancing back at the north bank, let alone firing a shot.

"They've withdrawn...really...really withdrawn?"

Nassin murmured to himself, tears welling up unexpectedly, mingling with the blood and mud on his face, "We...we won?"

"The bet won."

Song Heping's voice was so weak it was almost inaudible. He closed his bloodshot eyes, and despite his extreme exhaustion, the corners of his mouth twitched upwards with great difficulty, revealing a smile of relief.

He raised his hand, looking at his blood-stained fingers, stiff and spasming from pulling the trigger for so long, covered in gunpowder and dirt.

These hands, having just seized fate by the throat, have once again won an almost impossible gamble.

Fifty survivors, supporting each other, shakily stood up and gazed at the smoke and dust of the hasty retreat on the opposite bank.

There were no cheers, no jubilation.

There was only deathly silence.

The last rays of the setting sun shone upon this mountain of corpses and sea of ​​blood, upon these fifty figures who had crawled out of the deepest depths of hell.

A strange thought arose in everyone's mind—

alive?

I'm alive?

Or……

Today, I am still alive...

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)