Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 1119 Long Live Peace
Upon entering Syria, the wounds of war were laid bare before our eyes.

Most of the villages and towns along the highway are now in ruins.

The ruins were riddled with bullet holes, and the huge shell craters were a shocking sight.

Many houses were completely destroyed, leaving only a few twisted steel bars pointing towards the sky.

Most of the windows had become black holes, like the eye sockets of a skull.

Burned and blown-up car wrecks are everywhere, scattered in the fields and ditches, silently telling the story of the past tragedy.

The Syrian government forces have set up more checkpoints, with one almost every few kilometers.

Sandbag fortifications, concrete roadblocks, and tank bunkers constitute the main landscape.

The soldiers' expressions were no longer wary, but rather a complex mix of tension, ferocity, and numbness.

Their inspections of vehicles and personnel were more brutal and filled with distrust. In addition to government troops, one could also see armed personnel in mixed uniforms belonging to different militia groups, as well as the occasional Wagner mercenary in modern Russian equipment with a cold expression—Song Heping could identify them by their equipment and distinctive demeanor.

The refugee crisis persists, and the ongoing war, which continues to encroach on the western coast, leaves these displaced people even more disoriented and helpless.

Most of them blindly moved to the outskirts of major cities such as Damascus, which had not yet been completely engulfed by the war, or searched for rumored refugee camps.

The look of despair on their faces deepened.

In the sky, Syrian government forces' MiG fighters or helicopters occasionally roared low overhead, making a huge noise.

On the distant horizon, plumes of black smoke would occasionally rise, followed by faint, muffled explosions.

Each explosion caused a stir of unease among the crowd on the ground, and children would cry out in terror and run into their mothers' arms.

Song Heping silently gazed out the window at the shattered land.

Although he had experienced countless battles and witnessed various brutal battlefields, such a large-scale and comprehensive national collapse and human tragedy still brought him a tremendous psychological impact.

This is the land utterly crushed by the war machine, a breeding ground for extremist organizations like 1515, and the bloodiest sacrifice in the geopolitical games between major powers.

The vehicle dared not linger anywhere and sped towards Damascus.

The driver is extremely familiar with the road conditions and will often suddenly turn off the main road and take detours on bumpy, deserted dirt roads to avoid sections of road that are considered high-risk or where ambushes are frequent.

From time to time, the sounds of intense gunfire could be heard from the nearby streets. The crisp sounds of rifle fire, the roar of machine guns, and the loud explosions of rockets were clearly audible, reminding people that death was just around the corner.

The victory of 1515 and the opposition Free Army emboldened some dissidents still in government-controlled areas. Perhaps feeling that the time had come, these restless individuals joined forces and became a small destructive force, carrying out arson, murder, and looting in various places.

When a regime loses absolute control, its collapse is like a silent seepage under a flood dam, which will eventually cause the dam to break down without anyone noticing.

Song Heping seemed to understand the cook's anxiety.

He rarely asks himself for help like this.

A guy who was willing to abandon the mercenary team he created and leave to return to Russia for the sake of face is proud and has a lot to lose.

The fact that someone proactively called to ask for my help and promised to "agree to any conditions" clearly indicates that the situation is in dire straits.

On his way to Damascus, Song Heping experienced a close call.

The main road ahead was suddenly blocked by the wreckage of a burning truck, and dense gunfire could be heard in the distance.

The convoy immediately came to an abrupt stop.

The driver and agents instantly went into combat mode, grabbing their weapons, loading bullets, and nervously observing the surrounding terrain through the car windows, searching for possible ambush points and escape routes.

Fortunately, the firefight appeared to be taking place in a cluster of buildings a few hundred meters away and was not directly aimed at them.

After a suffocating wait of nearly twenty minutes, government soldiers arrived and finally cleared the rioters from the building.

The road ahead was cleared to create a passage, allowing the car to carefully maneuver around the burning wreckage and speed away from the dangerous area.

The closer one gets to Damascus, the more exponentially the density of military presence increases.

Layer upon layer of checkpoints, roadblocks, tanks, and armored vehicles formed a series of steel defense lines.

Many entrances to the city were completely blocked off, or complex zigzag routes were constructed using concrete barriers.

The walls of the buildings lining the street were piled with sandbags, and most of the windows were sealed with bricks or wooden boards.

The streets were sparsely populated, and those who were there all looked hurried, with hardly any smiles. Deep in their eyes, there was an undisguised fear and anxiety.

Although the city has not yet fallen, it is already tightly bound by the iron shackles of war, struggling to breathe.

After several hours of bumpy travel, detours, and tense waiting, the pickup truck finally entered a heavily guarded area on the eastern outskirts of Damascus.

This appears to be the base of an elite unit of the Cyrian Republican Guard, and there are also numerous traces of Wagner military contractor activity.

High walls, barbed wire, watchtowers, and heavy machine gun positions were everywhere, creating a more somber atmosphere than anywhere else along the way.

After undergoing at least five extremely rigorous checks—verifying passwords, inspecting documents, and even requiring everyone in the vehicle to get out for body searches and facial recognition—the pickup truck was finally allowed to enter the courtyard of a very ordinary-looking, low-rise reinforced concrete building with unusually thick walls.

"We're here. Follow me."

The junior agent seemed relieved when he saw Song Heping.

Song Heping got out of the car carrying the canvas bag and followed him into the building.

The interior corridors were narrow and dark, with rough, unpainted concrete walls that emitted a pungent musty smell.

The static noise of radio calls, the rapid sounds of Russian and Arabic commands, the clatter of keyboards, and the rustling of maps coming from behind the tightly closed iron doors on both sides of the corridor created a highly tense, high-speed wartime command atmosphere.

The agents led Song Heping to a heavy iron door with an electronic combination lock. After entering the password, they pushed it open a crack.

The view behind the door suddenly opened up. A spacious but cramped underground command center came into view.

The walls were covered with large, detailed military maps, satellite photos, and real-time situation maps of Syria. They were densely marked with the troop numbers, controlled areas, directions of advance, and hotspots of combat on both sides in red and blue, along with various arrows and symbols. The situation looked precarious, with large areas covered in glaring red.

In the center was a long table filled with advanced communication equipment, computer terminals, and encrypted telephones. A dozen Russian and Sirian officers were busy making and receiving calls, operating computers, and having heated discussions. Everyone's face was etched with fatigue and anxiety.

There was an almost solidified tension in the air.

In the very center of this bustling scene, an incongruous figure stood out—a man with a burly build, dressed in Russian-style digital camouflage combat uniform, yet comically wearing a white kitchen apron stained with a few oil smudges.

He was cursing loudly at a tactical tablet screen, his thick eyebrows furrowed tightly.

Then, as if sensing something, he suddenly raised his head, his gaze passing over the busy crowd, and precisely capturing Song Heping who had just entered the door.

This man was Yevgeny, an old friend nicknamed "The Cook".

His worried face instantly blossomed into a huge, fervent, and utterly sincere smile, like sunlight breaking through dark clouds.

He threw down the tablet with lightning speed, spread his thick arms, and strode through the command room, almost knocking aside the people blocking his way. His booming voice instantly drowned out the noise inside:

"Song! Haha! Song! I knew you'd come! My old friend! You damned fellow, you've finally arrived! How was the journey? Did you run into any major trouble?"

He gave Song Heping a solid bear hug and slapped his back hard, with enough force to suffocate an ordinary person.

"It's alright, chef. It's just that your 'welcoming route' is getting more and more exciting."

Song Heping also showed a rare genuine smile, and gently patted his old Russian friend's hard, iron-like arm in return.

"Damn it, in this godforsaken place, just getting in alive is a victory!"

The cook released him, grabbed Song Heping's shoulders with both hands, and looked him up and down carefully.

"No change! Still as menacing as a drawn sword! Good! Excellent!"

His joy was palpable, as if Song Heping's arrival itself had given him a shot in the arm.

He suddenly remembered something, tugged at his ridiculous apron, and said with a mix of embarrassment and deliberation, "See! I didn't lie to you! I said I'd show you my skills, and I even put on an apron and got to work in the kitchen! Authentic borscht! Beef, beets, potatoes, onions... Damn it, to get all these fresh ingredients, my men practically scoured half of the black market in Damascus."

"Do you remember? Back in Baghdad's Green Zone, we often ate outside our tents. You, White Bear, Gray Wolf, Queen... I'll never forget that taste! I've never been able to cook borscht that tastes like that since!"

Looking at the cook's unusual yet humane attire, and seeing how he stubbornly remembered to cook him a meal despite the suffocating pressure and crisis, even with his hardened heart, Song Heping couldn't help but feel a strong surge of warmth and indescribable emotion welling up in his chest.

This bond, forged in blood and fire, life and death, is far stronger and more precious than any exchange of benefits.

"remember."

Song Heping nodded, his tone very sincere, "Thank you, Yevgeny."

But his gaze immediately moved past the cook's shoulder and landed on the largest and most detailed battlefield situation map on the wall.

His eyes instantly regained their usual calm and sharpness: "However, you can drink the soup later. I didn't come here just to eat your Russian food; what I need most right now is information—the latest and complete information."

He pointed to the largest, still expanding red areas on the map, saying, "The situation here looks even worse than you described on the phone."

The cook's smile quickly faded, replaced by a heavy gloom.

He sighed heavily, his voice hoarse: "Yeah, damn it... every minute, things are getting worse, one bad news after another."

He ripped off his apron and tossed it to a bewildered adjutant standing nearby.

"Go watch the pot. Call me immediately when it's cooked. Don't let it burn!"

Then he turned to Song Heping, "Song, come here, let me show you just how rotten this pot is now..."

Song Heping raised his hand to stop him: "You don't need to dictate now. Give me all the intelligence summaries, detailed enemy and friendly deployment maps, all battle reports from the past 72 hours, and summaries of aerial reconnaissance and signals intelligence. Give me some time; I need to look at them myself and make my own judgment."

The cook paused for a moment, then understood.

This is the Song Heping he knows—always going straight to the core, prioritizing efficiency, and only trusting his own analysis and judgment.

He immediately yelled at a Russian military staff officer next to him, "Quickly! Do as Song said! Take all the data, the highest-authority data, to the top-secret intelligence analysis room next door! Immediately!"

He turned to Song Heping and said, "That room is the quietest, has the best soundproofing, and is the most fully equipped. You take a look first, and I'll go get the food for you. We can eat and chat at the same time."

Song Heping had already started walking, heading straight for the analysis room, and without turning back, he threw out a sentence: "Just leave the things at the door. Don't let anyone disturb me until I have a complete understanding of the situation."

His figure disappeared behind the heavy blast door, the lock clicking softly as it closed tightly.

As the cook looked at the closed door, the weariness and anxiety on his face seemed to miraculously lessen, and a glimmer of hope rekindled in his eyes.

He muttered to himself, as if in prayer: "Damn it... I hope you can pull off another miracle, like you did in Iligo, turning the impossible into the possible..."

He turned and strode towards the kitchen, his steps seeming lighter, as if the pot of borscht carried his greatest expectation at that moment.

In that cold analysis room filled with screens and electronic maps, Song Heping stood in front of the huge main screen, his gaze like the most sophisticated radar rapidly scanning, absorbing, and analyzing the vast yet chaotic data and information flow on the screen, trying to sort out the clues from this burning land and endless chaos, and find that crucial breakthrough point.

The war in Celia has quietly turned a new page because of his arrival.

Outside the door, the world was still engulfed in war, but inside, Song Heping's thoughts would determine the lives and deaths of countless people.

In the quiet analysis room, the only sounds were the faint rustling of Song Heping's fingers across the touchscreen and his steady breathing.

A silent battle has begun.

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

　　
　
(End of this chapter)