Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

The abandoned forest ranger station on the edge of the woods north of the city still has its lights on.

The windows let in drafts, the kerosene lamp flickered violently, and the room was filled with a mixture of strong liquor, tobacco, and medicine, making one's throat dry.

Around the brazier, several people were gathered around a small pot.

Potatoes, dark bread, and shredded cured meat were cooking in the pot. The steam rising from the pot carried the damp and musty smell throughout the room.

One of the Russians slammed his ladle into the pot, scalding his hand with the splashing soup. He spat and cursed, "This rotten stuff again! I've had enough of this stuff in here! Potatoes, black bread, rotten meat broth... I feel like throwing up just smelling it!"

The man next to him, his face also pale, tilted his head back and chugged down most of a bottle of vodka. Fueled by the alcohol, he smashed the bottle on the ground: "I don't want potatoes! I want women, the kind of succulent that's practically dripping with juice, whole pieces of raw meat, and I want to wash away this stench of my time in jail!"

Belikov, who was sitting opposite the brazier, remained silent.

He was as strong as a wall, with frighteningly broad shoulders. He wore an old military cotton-padded coat with the cuffs rolled up, revealing forearms crisscrossed with old knife scars.

He was looking down, cutting a piece of frozen, bluish-green, hard meat with a sharp knife, the tip of the knife making a harsh, grating sound as it carved into the wooden board.

Upon hearing this, he barely lifted his eyelids.

"Shut up."

The voice wasn't loud, but it carried a bone-chilling coldness.

The people in the room shrank back, and there was an instant silence.

Belikov raised his head, his greyish-white eyes scanning them one by one like venomous snakes. He pointed the blood-dripping dagger at the pot: "Don't forget who dragged you dead dogs out of that iron cage. If it weren't for me, you'd still be digging for rotten potatoes in that godforsaken place, not even seeing this pot of minced meat."

The room was so quiet that the only sound was the crackling of the firewood.

The man who had complained earlier lowered his head and gripped his collar tightly, ultimately not daring to utter another fart.

Belikov then tossed the raw meat into the pot, his face so dark it could drip water: "Just a few more days. Once I sell this to that Chinese man and make a fortune—"

Belikov paused, a sinister smirk creeping across his face. "We'll go find Kuznetsov and get a real batch of serious stuff. Once we have the long guns, we'll bring along some daredevils—"

"Go back and kill that bastard."

Upon hearing this, the other two people in the room immediately became bloodshot and their viciousness was revealed.

One of them slammed his hand on the chopping board, his face turning purple, and roared, "Yes! We have to kill that bastard Ivanov! I'll smash his bones inch by inch, and then cut off his talking tongue and feed it to the dogs! That son of a bitch made me eat frozen potatoes in there for years, I dream about twisting his head!"

"Belikov, you know where he is, don't you? Where did that loach go?"

Belikov lowered his head and continued cutting the meat, the blade making a dull "thud, thud" sound on the cutting board, each cut feeling like a blow to a person's neck.

After a couple of breaths, he raised his eyes and uttered two words in a sinister tone: "I know."

The two pairs of green eyes inside the room stared intently at him.

Belikov's voice was hoarse: "That bastard is hiding in a Chinese village called Kaoshantun, and he's been lying there for a while now."

This news was like a spark falling into an oil drum.

The man jumped up suddenly, grabbed the hunting knife beside him, his face contorted with rage: "What are we waiting for?! Now's the perfect opportunity! I won't sell the goods, I won't take the money! While he's still dreaming in the village, I'll sneak over tonight, stab his eyes out first, and then skin his whole family alive!"

The other one pushed forward, his throat emitting a beast-like pant: "Yeah! Get over there! I'm going to make him pay for all the suffering I've endured these past few years! First, I'll smash his mouth open, so he'll never live again, I'll watch him bleed to death!"

Belikov remained motionless.

He simply kept his head down, slowly and methodically cutting the last piece of salted meat, the knife tip scraping against the wooden table with a harsh screech, before casually pinning the dagger to the tabletop.

Then, he slowly raised his head.

"Have you finished speaking?"

The person who had been shouting the loudest was still furious, and subconsciously nodded: "Finished..."

Before the word "finished" could even leave his lips, Belikov had already leaped out like a lurking, hungry wolf.

One step close.

"Bang!"

A heavy punch landed without warning on the man's stomach, the dull thud making one's teeth ache.

The man instantly curled up like a shrimp, his eyes almost bulging out, and even his scream was forced back into his throat by the punch.

Belikov had no intention of giving him a chance to catch his breath. He grabbed his disheveled hair, strained his hand, and slammed him hard against the corner of the table with the force of his fall.

"Thump!"

The wooden table suddenly trembled.

The man's forehead immediately split open, and blood gushed from his nose as if it were free. Belikov seized the opportunity to withdraw his hand, twisted his waist and hips, and smashed half of his elbow into the man's cheek like an iron hammer.

"puff--"

Two broken teeth mixed with blood and foam splattered to the ground. The man's legs went weak, and he collapsed to the ground like a dead dog, curling up in a ball and trembling.

The room was deathly quiet.

Only the firewood in the brazier crackled slightly.

Belikov looked down at the pile of mangled flesh on the ground, his face devoid of any anger, but his eyes were chillingly cold: "Are you awake now?"

The person on the ground was covering half of their collapsed face, blood seeping into the cracks between their fingers, and all that could be heard from their throat was a wheezing sound like a bellows.

Belikov slowly squatted down, his five fingers gripping the other man's collar like steel hooks, and lifted him up with one hand. As he drew closer, the chilling aura of blood rushed straight to the other man's nose.

"I tell you to eat, so you eat; I tell you to talk, so you talk; I tell you to pee, so you pee. Understand?"

The man's pupils were dilated with pain, his Adam's apple trembled wildly, and with great effort he managed to squeeze out a bloody, weak voice from his throat: "I...I understand."

Belikov disgustedly shoved the man aside, grabbed a piece of greasy toilet paper, and began wiping the blood from between his fingers.

"I've got it."

"If there's a next time, it won't be as simple as just making you spit blood."

Just then/

Suddenly, a burst of urgent barking came from outside.

The desperados inside the room reacted with astonishingly synchronized movements, as if they'd been pricked in the buttocks with needles.

Belikov's eyes suddenly sharpened, and he grabbed the Mosin-Nagant rifle leaning against the corner of the wall. He pulled the bolt back, and with a crisp "click," the bullet was chambered.

The other two men exchanged a ferocious glance. One of them drew a short shotgun from his waist, while the other picked up a heavy iron shovel. Holding their breath, they quickly spread out on either side of the door.

Belikov kicked open the rickety wooden door, and the muzzle of his gun shot out instantly, the cold iron pipe gleaming in the dim light of the kerosene lamp.

"Who is it? Show yourself!"

Belikov growled, his index finger already firmly on the trigger. If there was any disturbance outside, he would definitely riddle the other party with bullets.

However, the light and shadows in the snow flickered, and a figure slowly emerged from the darkness.

Ivanov raised both hands high above his head, fingers spread, and forced a fawning smile that was more like a grimace.

"Belikov! Nikolai! And Gerasimov! Old friends, it's me... Please don't shoot, it's been so long."