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

As soon as he finished speaking, Nikolai and Gerasimov exchanged a glance, their mouths twitching into wide grins.

The pent-up anger in their eyes suddenly erupted, and the two men, like hyenas eyeing carrion, surrounded them from the left and right.

Belikov, carrying the Mosin-Nagant rifle, took a leisurely half-step forward, the tip of the gun provocatively poking Ivanov's expensive black wool coat, pushing him back little by little.

"What? You really think that throwing a few pieces of gold and opening up a business channel will make this debt disappear?"

Belikov's voice was extremely low, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "Ivanov, have you been in there too long and started to think too highly of me? Or do you think our lives are only worth that much money?"

He glanced with disgust at the heavy bag of gold at his feet, then suddenly looked up, his gaze fixed on Ivanov's face like steel nails: "The fact that you're willing to bring out so much of your wealth tonight means this is very important to you. Important enough that you, an old fox, would personally come to beg your mortal enemy, right?"

Ivanov's lips tightened into a straight line as he stared intently at the dark gun barrel, without saying a word.

Belikov's mockery deepened. He suddenly leaned closer, and a strong, pungent odor, a mixture of musty smells, cheap tobacco, and the sour stench of skin ulcers caused by prolonged lack of bathing, assaulted Ivanov's face.

"Then I'll definitely not let you have your way."

Do you know why?

He paused for a moment, the smile vanishing instantly, leaving only naked contempt and the pleasure of revenge: "Because in my eyes, you're just a piece of trampled dog shit. I endured three whole years in that cold, damp cellar, every night thinking about how to peel your skin off. Now you've finally delivered yourself to my doorstep, and you expect me to help you save someone?"

Belikov's lips curled into a cruel sneer, his primal rage erupting: "Not only will I not save him. I'll follow the clues to find out who you're trying to save. I'll skin him alive, piece by piece, right in front of you, and then stuff the pieces of flesh into your mouth!"

He took a large step forward and thrust his rifle hard, slamming it into Ivanov's chest, sending him staggering backward in the snow.

"Haven't you been holed up in Kaoshantun these past few days? Since you're in such a hurry, fine, I'll take some men to that village right now. Once I personally dig up that treasure you've hidden, you'll know what a real surprise is!"

Nikolai pulled a rusty dagger from his waist, rubbing it repeatedly on his greasy sleeve, his eyes gleaming green. "Belikov, that old fox has definitely hidden the man in some cellar. When we get there, we'll cut off his ear in front of him for a snack. Ivanov, don't you dare chicken out then. Weren't you all so cocky when you were investigating our backgrounds? Why are you silent now?"

Gerasimov grinned lewdly, his heavy military boots crunching under his feet in the snow.

He leaned closer, almost touching Ivanov's face, the stench of strong liquor mixed with sweat assaulting his nostrils: "Let's go, to Kaoshantun. I want to see what kind of meat you're willing to give up your territory for. If he's really handsome, I'll take care of him before I cut off his ears."

As he spoke, he raised his hand and lightly patted Ivanov's face twice.

Ivanov stood there motionless, his face extremely pale.

Seeing that he remained silent, Gerasimov laughed even harder, raising his hand to pat him on the face again: "What's wrong? Weren't you quite talkative just now? Now you're mute? Where's your swagger, Ivanov?"

He then slapped Ivanov's face for the third time.

This time, Ivanov suddenly raised his hand and shoved his hand away.

With a sharp "snap," Gerasimov's wrist was flung aside.

Gerasimov was taken aback at first, then his smile widened. He tilted his head and stared at Ivanov: "Oh, so you're still throwing a tantrum at me?"

Nikolai stood to the side watching, a slow grin spreading across his face. He raised his short shotgun slightly, his eyes filled with a malicious anticipation of a show.

Belikov didn't stop him; he just held his gun and watched coldly, as if to see how long Ivanov could hold out.

Ivanov opened Gerasimov's hand and then didn't move.

He simply stood up slowly and raised his hand to straighten the crooked collar of his coat little by little.

After straightening his collar, he looked up at the three people in front of him. The awkwardness and pretense on his face had completely disappeared, leaving only an almost deathly calm: "I'll give you one last piece of advice: you'd better calm down. If you take another step forward and something really happens—you'll regret it."

"What's the matter? Fuck you! You're about to die and you're still putting on airs!"

Nikolai cursed loudly, suddenly raising his short shotgun as if to smash it down on Ivanov's fat face.

In that instant, the hairs on the back of Belikov's neck stood on end.

This intuition, honed amidst piles of corpses, saved him. His pupils constricted, and almost instinctively, he yanked Nikolai away: "No! Get out of here..."

"Bang!"

In the distance, from the dark forest, a muffled rumble of thunder suddenly erupted.

The whistling sound of bullets tearing through the air arrived instantly.

Because of Belikov's pull, the shot that was supposed to be fatal grazed Nikolai's head and pierced his shoulder.

"what!"

Nikolai screamed as the force of the impact sent him flying, one shoulder ripped apart and bloodied, his shotgun flying out of his hand and landing in the snow.

He fell to the ground, clutching his wound and rolling around frantically, his mournful howls shattering the deathly silence of the snowy night.

"Get down! There's a sniper!"

Belikov roared at the top of his lungs.

He scrambled to the back of the cabin doorway, his right hand gripping the gun handle tightly. His face was as pale as snow, and large beads of cold sweat streamed down his temples.

Gerasimov was also terrified. He scrambled to the corner of the wall, his eyes wide with fear, desperately trying to hide in the shadows.

At the moment the gun went off, Ivanov, taking advantage of the chaos, plunged his body into a deep snow pit like a rolling landmine, burying himself completely in the snow.

Inside and outside the house, a deathly silence instantly descended.

Only Nikolai's intermittent wails sounded particularly mournful in the vast snowfield.

Deep in the woods.

Zhao Shanhe lay prone in the snow pit, expressionless as he pulled back the bolt of his rifle. With a "click," a smoking cartridge fell into the snow.

The crosshairs in the scope locked onto the rickety wooden door again the instant the smoke cleared.