American Evil God, starting with the American rebel leader raising poisonous insects.

"Watch out at two o'clock, there's something over there..."

The drone behind me was broadcasting the other party's location in real time through my earpiece.

As the third team to enter the ruined town of Red River, Prussia felt as if he were walking on thin ice when he was assigned to search the western district.

The road was riddled with craters from the shells, the houses were completely destroyed, and there were small amounts of charred blood and a scattered, air-dried Gundam on the ground.

Fuck, we're from the same hometown.

As the drones monitoring their positions from the air kept reporting their location, he held his breath, staring wide-eyed beside his teammates, afraid that someone might suddenly appear at any moment.

Then--

"Bang!"

A shot rang out.

It wasn't directed at them.

The drone in the sky shook violently, its red camera light went out, and it spun as it fell from a height of fifteen meters, crashing into a pile of rubble.

Boom!

The explosion wasn't loud, but it was enough to send chills down everyone's spine.

Immediately following, the group, whose mental state was already at its limit, began firing crossfire directly at the ruins created by the bullets.

Whether or not, safety is the most important thing.

Thirty rounds, forty rounds, the spent cartridges clattered to the ground.

Smoke and dust rose.

There was no retaliation.

The shooting stopped.

The six men stood still, their guns pointed in different directions, their breathing becoming heavy inside their protective masks.

Prussia raised his left hand and made a gesture.

They exchanged glances and made a gesture to surround each other.

Then the three of them split into two teams, one in front of the other, and walked towards the entrance of the collapsed power plant, which had no roof.

The factory interior was dimly lit.

The roof was mostly blown off by the shells, and the afternoon sun slanted in, cutting out patches of light and shadow on the rubble-strewn ground.

There was a burnt and rusty smell in the air.

The squad on the left moved close to the wall, their boots shattering the glass.

The squad on the right used the collapsed steel beams as cover and advanced slowly.

Prussia is second in the right team.

He raised his rifle and scanned the dilapidated platform on the second floor through the scope.

The structure has collapsed, with only a few steel bars hanging crookedly from the concrete blocks.

There was no one in sight.

The thermal imager screen showed a dark green area, with only slight differences in ambient temperature.

"Safety."

"The captain on the left said in a low voice."

"Safety."

The captain on the right responded.

They continued forward.

Five meters, ten meters.

The sound of dripping water came from deep within the factory building, drip, drip, drip.

boom.

A sound suddenly came from the collapsed half of the building.

The gunshots were particularly clear in the enclosed space, with a distinct echo.

The Prussians didn't even see where the bullet came from.

He only heard a muffled groan beside him, followed by the sound of a body hitting the ground.

He turned around abruptly.

Hank, the Jose man who was sharing chewing gum with him in the car yesterday, was lying on his back on the ground.

A bullet hole appeared in the neck, the area most vulnerable to injury.

Blood was gushing from the bullet hole, like a datura flower.

Hank's eyes were still open, and his lips moved but only made gurgling sounds.

The five rifles turned almost simultaneously toward the direction from which the bullets were coming, onto the second floor, where the angled shadow formed by the steel bars and concrete blocks created a point of contact.

Fire.

Fully automatic firing.

Bullets hitting concrete splatter white dust and hitting steel bars sparks.

The corner was smashed into flying debris and billowing dust.

One magazine emptied.

Replace magazines.

The shooting stopped.

The smoke and dust slowly settled.

There was nothing in that corner.

There were no bodies, no bloodstains, and no discarded weapons.

There were only bullet holes, densely packed, like a honeycomb.

"Shit!"

Prussia stared at the thermal imager screen.

Just now, at the moment the shot was fired, an orange-red humanoid outline did flash across the screen, but it only lasted for less than half a second before disappearing as if it had been erased.

It's like he just used Flash to escape.

"Why isn't this infrared detector working!"

He cursed and turned his gaze, pointing the gun deeper into the factory.

That was the steam turbine workshop; the door was half-open, and it was completely dark inside.

"Get out."

The left-side captain said,

"This place is no place to stay."

They began to retreat.

The Gundam dragging Hank along.

The retreat was faster than the advance, but the formation was maintained and the gun barrels provided alternating cover.

They left the factory, retreated to the streets, and returned to the area where tank cannons were pointing.

Prussia leaned against a broken wall, took off his bulletproof mask, and gasped for breath.

Sweat streamed from my forehead into my eyes, stinging painfully.

He opened the kettle and took a sip; the water was warm and had a plastic taste.

The communication from the command center came through the headset:

"West District Third Team, report the situation."

The captain on the left presses the headset:

"Sniper attack encountered, one casualty. The enemy used... unknown methods to evade thermal imaging. Requesting heavy firepower to clear the area."

"Received. Standby, support will arrive in one minute."

Prussia looked towards the other end of the street.

Two M1A2 tanks were slowly turning, their turrets rotating, the barrels of their 120mm smoothbore guns lowered, aiming at the power plant building.

Muzzle stabilizing ring locked.

Fire.

boom--

The muzzle flash exploded into a burst of orange-red in the dim light.

The first high-explosive shell penetrated the second floor of the factory and exploded. The concrete structure shattered like a biscuit, and the shockwave blew all the remaining windows away.

The second shot followed, hitting the bottom load-bearing column.

The factory building began to tilt.

The steel beams groaned and twisted, then the entire structure collapsed, raising clouds of dust.

Gravel rained down on the street.

The Prussian soldier huddled behind the broken wall, covering his ears.

When the tremors subsided, he looked up.

The power plant has been reduced to a smoking ruin.

"Target cleared."

It said in the earphones,

"Continue to move forward."

"Fuck! Weren't they supposed to be just militiamen and some retired veterans who glued track tracks? How come they're all so damn strong?!"

In the command center, Gordon Jose stared at the tactical screen, his voice forced out through clenched teeth.

On the screen, the blue dots representing our soldiers are disappearing rapidly.

It wasn't the kind of widespread disappearance that occurs in large-scale battles.

One after another, every few minutes.

It was as if someone had pinpointed it precisely by something unseen.

Before each point disappeared, the last images transmitted back by the drone were all roughly the same:

The squad was advancing inside the building when suddenly gunfire erupted, one soldier fell to the ground, and they returned fire but missed; the thermal imaging had failed.

Then that dot went gray.

Forty-seven minutes into the attack, they have already lost twenty-three players.

Killed in action, not wounded.

All of them were killed with a single shot, either to the head or the neck; the bullets always managed to find that three-centimeter gap at the edge or bottom.

Gordon pulled up the casualty list.

Most of them are followed by "DPD"—the Detroit Police Department.

Fortunately.

But as the numbers go up further, the report becomes more difficult to write.

"We can't wait any longer."

He turned to the officer standing beside the sand table and said,

"Greem, get them moving too. Tanks, follow up, and start your best counterinsurgency and urban warfare tactics."

The officer nodded and picked up the communicator.

The order was passed on.

"Tch, they're just a bunch of retired old fogies."

Inside the cockpit of the Apache helicopter, William Simpson, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, rested his left hand on the control stick and his right thumb rubbing the fire button on the M230 chain gun.

Thirty millimeters in diameter.

The rate of fire is 625 rounds per minute.

Three hundred meters beneath his feet, the streets of Honghe Town stretched out like a toy model.

Smoke rose from several buildings, tanks crawled slowly along the main road, and infantry squads moved like ants among the ruins.

"I wonder how many pieces these so-called saints would be broken into if they fought?"

He grinned.

Back when he was young, he had fought against these so-called saints before.

They rushed over, wearing long robes, holding scriptures, and shouting slogans.

Then they turned into clouds of blood and minced meat in front of his 30mm autocannon.

Earth collapse and tile dog.