Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Boom—the sound of the first landmine exploding tore through the camp in a flash of fire.

The Jeep's chassis was flipped over, the body flipped in the air, and the tires flew off, smashing into the windshield of another truck, shattering the glass into dust.

Flames burst forth from under the car, like a suddenly blooming orange-red flower, illuminating the entire parking lot, the walls of the gray building, and the pale faces of the two sentries at the entrance.

The two sentries instinctively raised their guns, pointing them in the direction of the explosion. Before they could even shout anything, a second landmine exploded at their feet.

Boom—this time it was even louder than before, the shockwave carrying iron nails and rubble swept in all directions like an invisible giant hand.

The two sentries were thrown into the air, their bodies tumbling several times before crashing to the ground, lying motionless. Their camouflage uniforms were torn in several places by shrapnel, and blood was gushing from those wounds.

Several military vehicles parked nearby were pushed sideways by the shockwave, their tires leaving charred marks on the concrete.

The truck's fuel tank was punctured by shrapnel, and gasoline spurted out of the bullet hole like a thin fountain.

The flames ignited by the explosion followed the oil trail and spread rapidly, bursting out of the fuel tank opening and licking at the truck's chassis, tires, and cargo box. The flames fluttered in the night wind like a flag being blown by the wind.

The third landmine exploded at the entrance of the small building.

Boom! The iron gate was blown away, the door frame was tilted, and cement fragments fell from the door frame.

The shockwave rushed up the stairs, overturning the oil paintings in the corridor.

The glass picture frame fell to the ground and shattered.

The windows on the second floor trembled in the shockwave, and spiderweb-like cracks appeared in the glass.

Jason rushed out of the room and was thrown over by the shockwave as he reached the stairwell.

He flew backward and crashed into the corridor wall, his back aching and his ears ringing.

She lay on the ground and shook her head. The buzzing in her ears hadn't subsided when she heard a loud metallic cracking sound and screams coming from downstairs.

My hand pressed on the floor, and the floor vibrated. The lights flickered, sometimes bright, sometimes dim, like the unstable lighting during a storm.

She grabbed the stair railing and climbed up. The wound on her severed finger reopened during the violent movement, and blood seeped out from the gauze, flowing down her finger.

She didn't care and staggered downstairs.

My knees trembled with every step I took, and my wounds bled with every step I took.

She rushed down to the first floor, but the iron gate was no longer there.

The door frame was crooked, and the iron door had flown several meters away to the ground, still smoking.

One of the military vehicles parked at the entrance caught fire, flames leaping from under the hood and being stretched into orange-red tongues by the night wind, licking the roof.

The air was thick with the smells of gunpowder, blood, and burning gasoline, all mixed together, making one's throat tight and eyes unable to open.

She stood at the doorway, still clutching her severed little finger tightly in her hand, her nails digging into her flesh.

She looked down—her little finger had turned blue, the skin wrinkled, like a dried chili pepper soaked in water, its color a dark purple in the firelight.

The bone exposed at the break was white and particularly glaring in the firelight.

She jerked her head up and shouted into the chaotic camp, "Help! Help!"

Her voice was so faint amidst the gunfire and explosions that it was like a thread that might snap at any moment, and no one could hear it.

The soldiers who rushed out of the barracks, some carrying guns and running towards the direction of the explosion, some lying on the ground for cover, and some kneeling next to their wounded comrades, their hands trembling as they tore open first aid kits.

Everyone was terrified by the sudden attack.

For decades, no one has dared to attack American military bases.

nobody.

This is Singapore, one of the most important military bases for the United States in Southeast Asia, where thousands of soldiers are stationed, warships and fighter jets are docked, and the country is equipped with some of the world's most advanced weapons.

Nobody dares to cause trouble here.

Even those madmen who carry out terrorist attacks wouldn't dare.

But tonight, someone broke in.

This man not only stormed in, but also blew up three military vehicles, wounded more than a dozen soldiers, cut off the finger of a CIA agent, and then disappeared—like a drop of water evaporating into the air, like a ghost merging into the darkness.

Chen Feng had already crawled through the barbed wire and was standing outside the wall.

With the night vision goggles still in front of my eyes, the entire camp looked like a constantly shaking map in the green field of vision—the flashes of explosions, the figures of people running, the flashing headlights of vehicles—all those chaotic elements mixed together.

He glanced back.

The base is in an uproar.

The beams of headlights and flashlights swayed wildly across the camp, and the sounds of car engines starting up echoed everywhere.

Some people were shouting "Seal off the gate," some were shouting "Call an ambulance," and some were shouting "Notify the military police."

The sounds mingled together, buzzing like a pot of boiling porridge. The searchlight beams, no longer moving slowly, swept wildly across the camp like the claws of an enraged beast flailing erratically in the darkness.

The beam of light swept over his head several times, but he remained crouched in the shadows outside the wall, camouflage netting draped over his body, motionless.

The beam of light slid over him, illuminating nothing, like water flowing over a stone, bypassing it, and then closing in again.

He stood up, put the camouflage net back into his spatial storage, and walked back along the wall.

His pace was neither too fast nor too slow, and each step was steady.

The night wind blew by, making his clothes flutter.

He flipped up his night vision goggles, revealing a pair of deep, calm eyes. He gazed at the distant firelight, then at the still-quiet nightscape of Po County further away, before turning and leaving.

Inside the base.

Jason stood at the entrance of the gray building, still clutching the severed finger in his hand.

Several soldiers surrounded her, holding guns with the muzzles pointing outwards, protecting her in the middle.

A medic squatted down in front of her and hurriedly opened the first aid kit.

Her gaze went over the soldiers' shoulders and landed on the silent, dark perimeter wall surrounding the camp.

The Northwesterners are gone.

He cut off one of her fingers, blew up three military vehicles, and injured more than a dozen soldiers. He came to this military base, which is said to be the safest in Southeast Asia, and then left, as if he had just strolled through a vegetable market.

She looked down at her mutilated hand, which was still bleeding.

The medic wrapped her wound with gauze, wrapping it round and round until the white gauze was quickly soaked with blood and turned dark red.

She suddenly smiled, a brief, icy smile that flashed by in the firelight.

She looked up at the still-smoking parking lot, at the still-burning military vehicle, and at the soldiers running in the chaos.

"madman."

She murmured,

"He's a madman."

When Chen Feng returned to the hotel, the young woman at the front desk was still dozing off.

He went up the stairs, pushed open the door, and entered the room.

He took off his jacket and took out a new one from his storage space to put on.

He went into the bathroom, turned on the tap, and the water was very hot. Steam quickly filled the entire bathroom, and a layer of white mist covered the mirror.

He stood under the showerhead, hot water pouring down on him, washing away the paint on his face, the dust on his body, and the bloodstains on his hands.

He took half an hour to shower, changed his clothes—a dark short-sleeved shirt, black trousers, and cloth shoes—and sat on the edge of the bed.