Mercenary I am the king

Chapter 957 The real showdown begins now

Duer's screams echoed in the empty, smoke-filled, and death-laden courtyard of the presidential palace, carrying a desperate and devastating tone that seemed to tear at his vocal cords.

That filthy "white flag" was waved wildly in Duer's violently trembling hands, like a shameful banner proclaiming the complete collapse of this government's power.

"Cease fire."

Song Heping raised his hand, signaling Bai Xiong to stop shooting, and then turned his gaze toward the gate of the Presidential Palace.

Duer's distorted face was covered in blood and tears, and he waved the white rag in his hand, like the climax of an absurd play.

He didn't speak.

He simply raised one hand, facing the door, and made an extremely simple and cold gesture—come here.

Gestures are commands.

Even a president like Touré is no exception.

The heavy main gate of the Presidential Palace, riddled with bullet holes and smoke marks, struggled to open a crack amidst the grating creak of its internal machinery.

Duer's figure appeared in the shadows of the door crack. He practically scrambled out, tripped, and fell awkwardly onto the steps in front of the door.

He clutched the blood-stained "white flag" tightly in his hand, which was covered in mud.

He struggled to stand up, but his legs were as weak as overcooked noodles. He tried several times but to no avail. He could only slump on the cold stone steps, panting heavily, his body trembling like a leaf.

Song Heping strode forward, his military boots clicking steadily and clearly as they trod across the broken bricks and sand.

He stopped a few steps away from Duer.

Looking down at the other party.

Condescending.

As the shadow fell, Duer looked up in horror.

The moonlight was blocked by Song Heping's broad shoulders, leaving darkness on his face.

Duer's eyes were unfocused, his pupils filled with utterly crushed fear and bewilderment, like prey with its throat held by the claws of its natural enemy.

"document."

Song Heping's voice pierced Duer's chaotic consciousness like an icicle, carrying an undeniable sense of closure.

Jiang Feng appeared silently behind Song Heping like a ghost.

He held an open hard black folder in his hand, containing several printed documents, the pages fluttering gently in the evening breeze.

The title of the top document is clearly visible: "Agreement on the Transfer of State Power and Amnesty".

Jiang Feng handed the folder and a heavy gold fountain pen to Duer.

Duer's gaze was fixed on the document, as if it were an abyss that could devour one's soul.

His lips trembled violently, and a gurgling sound came from his throat, but he couldn't utter a complete syllable.

His hand instinctively rose and reached for the pen, but his fingertips trembled violently just centimeters from the cold metal, and he withdrew as if electrocuted.

An immense sense of humiliation and a complete collapse of his sense of power gnawed at his heart like two venomous snakes. The muscles in his face contorted as if he were screaming silently, making a final, futile struggle.

Time seems to have frozen.

Only the deep, continuous roar of the tank engine, like an eternal heartbeat in the background, pounded against Dur's nerves, which were already stretched to their limit.

The 125mm cannon barrel, though temporarily silent, still held a chilling metallic feel and a dark, gaping muzzle, like an eternally gazing eye, reminding him of the devastating blow he had just delivered and of his only remaining choice.

Cold sweat trickled down Duer's forehead and temples like streams, mixing with blood and dust, carving muddy furrows on his face.

He suddenly closed his eyes, his body convulsed violently, as if he had exhausted the last bit of strength to fight back.

When he opened his eyes again, all that remained was a stagnant emptiness and utter surrender.

He stopped trembling, raised the hand that had once signed countless laws and held the lives and deaths of countless people in its hands, and grasped the cold, golden pen.

The pen tip touched the paper.

The faint friction sound was almost inaudible against the backdrop of the tank engine's low growl and the sporadic gunfire in the distance.

However, when the name "Duer Karan" finally landed at the blank signature space at the end of the document in a distorted, trembling handwriting, like the last words of a dying person, something invisible and heavy crashed to the ground.

The dust has settled.

Duer felt as if his spine had been removed, and he completely collapsed, his hand holding the pen falling limply to his side, the pen clattering onto the stone steps.

He sat there, his head bowed low, his gray hair disheveled in the evening breeze, his gaze fixed blankly on his mud-stained trouser legs, like a clay sculpture that had instantly lost all life.

Song Heping's gaze swept over the distorted signature on the document, confirming that it was correct.

He reached out and took the folder from Jiang Feng, then slammed it shut.

The movements were swift and decisive, without the slightest hesitation. That soft sound was like a final, definitive statement.

"Jiang Feng, take Mr. Duer to his office, and then record a resignation video for him." Song Heping's voice was completely calm as he gave the order. "Then prepare a plane immediately and send him and his family away before dawn."

"Yes!"

Jiang Feng responded in a deep voice and waved his hand.

Two tall, strong mercenaries immediately stepped forward. Their movements weren't exactly rough, but they were certainly devoid of any respect. One on each side, as if lifting a sack of worthless cargo, they dragged the limp Dur from the cold stone steps.

Duer's feet dragged on the ground without any struggle, letting them drag him towards the main building of the presidential palace.

The blood-stained fragment of the "white flag" shirt slipped from his limp hand and fell forlornly onto the steps, where it was quickly stepped over by a muddy military boot.

Song Heping didn't look at Duer again. He turned around and gazed into the distance.

The air was still thick with the pungent smells of gunpowder, dust, and blood.

The once-imposing spire of the Presidential Palace building behind me, overlooking the entire city, is now just a huge, ugly, and grotesque broken end.

The broken steel bars, like snapped ribs, twisted and pierced the dim sky. Smoke and dust still slowly spread and rose from the broken ends.

Before the smoke of the power transition had even cleared, a new order had already been born under the guns.

However, he knew very well that this was only the beginning of the battle.

Seizing power by force does not mean that the dust has settled.

The international struggle was just beginning.

If not handled properly, the results you have just achieved can be ruthlessly taken away by others.

That's how cruel the struggle is.

You must be careful.

However, he was in a very good mood at the moment.

After all, at least he was already seated at the table.

As for how to divide the meat on the table, that depends on your own skills.

ten minutes later.

Inside the chaotic office of the presidential palace, the lights were blindingly white, and the air was filled with a strange smell of disinfectant mixed with fear.

Duer was seated behind the large mahogany desk that had once symbolized power, but he was now slumped in the leather chair like a lump of mud.

Beneath his disheveled, graying hair, his once spirited face was now swollen, covered in blood and tear stains, and his eyes were hollow as if they had been gouged out.

Two mercenaries dressed in black combat uniforms stood like stone sculptures on either side of him, radiating an invisible pressure.

A portable camera lens was coldly pointed at him.

Jiang Feng stood off-camera, his voice low but carrying an undeniable command: "Mr. Duer, begin. Read from the script. Be clear."

He pushed a printed sheet of paper in front of him.

Duer's lips trembled violently, and with each heavy breath, a hoarse sound came from his throat.

His gaze strained to focus on the manuscript paper; the cold words burned his eyes like a red-hot iron.

He tried to reach for the glass of water on the table, but his hand trembled so badly that the glass tipped over with a crash, spilling water onto the manuscript paper and quickly spreading into a blurry ink stain.

"waste."

Jiang Feng cursed under his breath and gestured to a mercenary next to him.

The man immediately stepped forward, roughly grabbed Duer's wrist, and roughly wiped the dirt and tears off his face with a coarse towel, the force almost tearing off a layer of skin. Duer let out a suppressed groan of pain.

"Read!"

Jiang Feng's voice suddenly rose, like a whip lashing through the dead silence.

Duer shuddered, his pupils contracting sharply.

He stared intently at the water-soaked, blurred manuscript paper, as if it were an abyss that would swallow him up.

After a few seconds of deathly silence, a hoarse, broken voice, tinged with heavy sobs, squeezed out intermittently from his throat:

“Citizens of the Republic of Seine… I… Durr-Karang… hereby… announce… my resignation… as President… effective immediately…” Each word seemed to drain the last of his life force. “For the past three months… the country… has fallen into chaos… the economy… has collapsed… and the people… have suffered… I… feel… powerless… and bear unshirkable responsibility… For the sake of… national peace… and to avoid… further bloodshed… I… have decided… to… transfer… power… to… the legitimate… successor… Isis Marcus…”

His voice grew softer and softer until it almost turned into a sob.

When he finished reading the last word, he suddenly lowered his head, his forehead slamming heavily against the cold table. His shoulders convulsed violently, and he let out an uncontrollable, mournful cry, like that of a wounded wild beast.

The voice echoed in the empty studio, filled with utter despair and indelible shame.

Jiang Feng watched expressionlessly until Duer's sobs gradually weakened and turned into heavy breathing. He nodded to the cameraman.

The red light on the camera went out.

"take away."

Jiang Feng waved his hand, his voice as cold as the Siberian permafrost, "Clean it up."

Two mercenaries stepped forward again and dragged the completely limp Duer off the chair.

His body was limp as if boneless, his feet dragging on the ground, leaving two murky water streaks on the shiny floor—marks of an overturned glass and his incontinent urine.

The studio door closed behind him, shutting out the nauseating, corrupt atmosphere.

Almost at the same time that Duer was dragged off the broadcast studio, Jiang Feng spoke into his headset with a resolute voice: "Signal switched in, broadcast nationwide."

(End of this chapter)