Searching for someone in northern Myanmar, and you call that earning tuition fees?

With a piercing metallic scraping sound, the Gulfstream G650 slammed heavily onto the makeshift runway.

This is an abandoned field runway on the border of Tanzania.

The runway was uneven and overgrown with weeds.

The plane taxied for less than 500 meters before suddenly coming to a stop.

The hatch opened, and a wave of heat, mixed with dust, rushed out.

The pilot poked his head out of the cockpit and said briefly and urgently, "According to the contract, I can only stay for three minutes. Good luck."

Su Ming jumped down the suspended ladder with a huge canvas bag on his back.

The moment my feet touched the ground, the roar of the plane's engines behind me intensified. Before the cabin door could be closed properly, the plane began to turn around and taxi, then soared into the sky.

Su Ming watched the plane hastily disappear into the distance, as if shaking off a huge problem. He withdrew his gaze and muttered to himself, "That was decisive."

Su Ming looked around.

This is a wasteland.

Black smoke was rising in the distance; it was from burning oil wells or villages.

The air was filled with the stench of burning rubber.

Su Ming tightened the straps of his backpack.

There were no headsets, and no command center.

There are no cell towers here.

His only means of communication was a satellite phone hidden deep inside his bag, but he didn't take it out.

There's no need to speak now, just keep moving.

He glanced at the mechanical watch on his wrist; the hands pointed to 2 PM. In his mind, a map automatically appeared—northwest, 120 kilometers, Dr. Chen's last coordinates. Hiking for three days in this godforsaken place was tantamount to suicide. He needed a car and a fast enough road.

Su Ming lowered the brim of his hat and walked towards a half-collapsed red brick house at the end of the track.

There was a jeep parked there.

The car body was riddled with bullet holes, but the engine was still running.

Three local militants dressed in a mix of camouflage and tattered T-shirts were leaning against the car. One of them was wearing a comical red beanie, and several empty bottles were scattered at his feet. He was casually swinging the muzzle of his AK47.

They saw Su Ming.

Or perhaps they saw Su Ming's rather bulky canvas bag.

Three men stood up, speaking in the local dialect, and raised their guns, pointing them at Su Ming.

He couldn't understand the other person's local language, but the look in their eyes that regarded people as prey was a universal language.

The tall man in the middle pulled back the bolt and made a gesture to "throw the bag over here".

Su Ming stopped and reached into his pocket.

The three people opposite immediately tensed up, their fingers on the trigger.

Su Ming took out a pack of cigarettes.

Hua Zi.

I bought it at a supermarket in the country, intending to keep it as a gift.

He took out a cigarette, put it in his mouth, didn't light it, and then threw the whole pack of cigarettes over.

The red cigarette pack traced an arc in the air.

The tall man instinctively reached out to take it.

He calculated that the other person's attention would pause for a moment when they received the item.

The moment the cigarette pack slipped from his hand, Su Ming pushed off with his feet, his body shot up, and he charged forward fiercely!

A distance of more than ten meters.

The tall man had just caught the cigarette box when Su Ming was already in front of him.

He gripped the scorching hot barrel with his left hand and pushed it upwards.

"Da da da—"

A burst of bullets shot into the sky.

Su Ming clenched his right fist, his knuckles like iron, and precisely struck the man's Adam's apple. With a dull cracking sound, the tall man's eyes bulged, and he collapsed, clutching his neck, without even uttering a sound.

The two accomplices next to him realized what was happening and turned their guns around.

Su Ming seized the AK47 from the tall man and swept it with the butt.

"Bang."

The man on the left had his jaw fractured and was sent flying.

Just as the man on the right was about to pull the trigger, Su Ming had already moved in and kicked him in the side of the knee.

Click.

The leg joints are twisted in the opposite direction.

Before the scream could even escape his lips, Su Ming delivered a follow-up palm strike, slashing at the carotid sinus.

He walked over, picked up the bag of cigarettes that was a little dusty, carefully patted it clean, and put it back in his pocket.

Waste is shameful.

He dragged the three unconscious men behind the red brick house, casually pulled out a thick fishing line he had bought at the school supermarket from his bag, and quickly tied them up tightly.

This special fishing line tightens the more the fish struggles.

After doing all this, Su Ming dusted off his hands and got into the jeep riddled with bullet holes.

Start the engine, shift gears, and floor the accelerator.

The jeep kicked up a cloud of yellow dust, its engine roaring across the wasteland as it sped off into the northwest.