After the relentless bombardment of landmines and mortars, the government troops—already demoralized—collapsed completely. Any semblance of organized resistance vanished. Soldiers broke rank, scattering in panic toward the forest.
"Fall back!" Deadshot shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos. He raised a rifle he'd picked off the ground and dropped several advancing enemies with clinical precision. "The trees will at least block mortar visibility!"
"I know!" Adam snapped, his teeth clenched as he grabbed a nearby rifle, slinging it over his shoulder. He scooped up extra magazines from the ground and signaled to the others. Together, they followed Deadshot into the dense cover of the woods.
Though the forest was thick, winding dirt trails—likely beaten down by local villagers—provided a way forward. The group sprinted along the path, adrenaline surging, but soon came to a fork in the trail. Two divergent paths loomed ahead.
Panic led the government troops to take the left route without hesitation. But seconds later, mechanical clicking sounded from the trees above. A flurry of crossbow bolts rained down, striking several soldiers in the lead.
"Ambush! There's a trap!" one of the officers hissed. Without hesitating, he spun around and fled down the other trail, his men quickly falling in line.
Jason instinctively moved to follow them, fear evident on his face. But Adam caught him by the collar and yanked him back.
"What the hell, Master?!" Jason gasped. "We have to move—now!" Newest update provided by novęlfire.net
But Adam didn't answer immediately. Instead, he gathered everyone close and spoke in a low, urgent voice.
"Something's off. Way off. Think about it—the initial explosion that crippled the convoy, then the perfectly timed mortar barrage, followed by a coordinated ground assault... it's all too precise. This wasn't random." He pointed down the path the government troops had taken. "If the enemy went through all that trouble, it doesn't make sense to leave a 'safe' escape route just lying around."
Jason's expression shifted as the implications sank in.
"Exactly," Adam continued. "They've planned this. Which means that safe-looking path? It's probably a trap too—just a more elaborate one."
Deadshot gave a curt nod, his expression grim. "Makes sense. They're short on numbers—otherwise, we'd be dead already. So they're using guerrilla tactics. Psychological warfare. Bleed us out, then finish us when we're weak."
Adam nodded and replied, "That's why they're funneling people toward that fork. The path with traps? That's our only real chance—it's risky, but it's the kind of risk they're counting on us not taking."
Everyone fell silent.
Crossing a path filled with traps sounded suicidal. But following the seemingly safer route meant walking into a kill box.
"I'll take point," said Bronze Tiger, finally breaking his silence. "Crossbows and snares won't stop me."
Deadshot stepped up beside him. "I've seen my fair share of jungle warfare. I can spot most of the obvious traps—tripwires, buried charges, hidden triggers."
Adam nodded. No need for speeches. He raised his rifle, ready to provide cover. Between Deadshot and Bronze Tiger, this was their best shot.
The group advanced into the danger path.
Bronze Tiger led with uncanny grace, stepping only where the foliage remained untouched. A few traps triggered—bolts flying or nets springing—but he neutralized them mid-air with precise strikes, as though swatting flies.
Deadshot followed closely behind, calling out potential mine placements and buried hazards. The two worked in perfect rhythm, navigating the deadly gauntlet.
Jason and Ivy trailed behind, moving cautiously, mimicking every footfall their guides made. They moved slowly, yes, but they moved safely.
Meanwhile, back on the other path, the government troops discovered the truth.
The trail ended at a sheer canyon wall. They'd run into a cul-de-sac—boxed in, nowhere to run. Trapped like rats.
And above them, machine guns sat mounted and waiting, their cold steel barrels aimed down from fortified positions.
"Don't shoot!" a government officer cried, raising his hands. "We surrender!"
He dared not run. Turning around meant showing their backs—and dying before they took a second step. They were exhausted, demoralized, and outgunned. There was no fight left in them.
"I want to speak to your commander!" the officer pleaded. "Tell him—I'll surrender my sword."
Maybe it was someone he knew. The military world in South America was small, often tangled. Maybe there was a chance at mercy.
Then the soldiers atop the cliff parted.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed across the ridge, like something monstrous was approaching.
From the shadows stepped a towering figure.
He was a mountain of muscle—each limb forged from years of brutal combat. A respirator mask covered his face, stark and skeletal, adding to his inhuman presence. The sun caught his silhouette like a halo of dread.