Chapter 88 Ripples

Qin Qing was summoned again to the command tent.

The slideshow displayed familiar map outlines.

The technical team had simulated several routes on the terrain map based on the tracks provided by Qin Qing.

Using the movements of the hostages, they reconstructed the transfer process and route, concluding that Qin Qing’s intel was entirely reasonable.

Then, using maps from the camp to the stronghold, combined with information on the stronghold’s military defenses, they developed an attack route and feasible battle plan.

The 3D animations in the slideshow rotated continuously.

It signified that Qin Qing’s arrival had pushed the mission progress forward by a crucial step.

This time, she was called in to verify the accuracy of the 3D reconstructed route—after all, her initial sketch was drawn by hand on a paper map and could have deviations.

Qin Qing compared it carefully using her notebook—no errors.

With that confirmed, the Commander ordered communication with the local warlord allied with them to coordinate on the operation.

On the eve of the battle, Qin Qing thought the camp would be steeped in a tense, grim atmosphere. But surprisingly, it wasn’t. The soldiers were quite relaxed.

Or at least, that’s how it appeared.

After nightfall, everyone dined together.

Qin Qing adapted to local customs and joined in.

As the only woman in the camp, she naturally drew a lot of attention.

People addressed her in all sorts of ways—Ms. Qin, Expert Qin, Consultant Qin. It seemed the soldiers roughly knew her purpose, though probably not the details.

But no one asked.

They treated her like a guest, warmly engaging with her.

Some shared their favorite ways to eat military rations.

Like mixing canned meat with self-heating noodles.

Or adding tea bags and dehydrated greens into the rice boxes to make tea-soaked rice.

Some even got creative, foraging for edible wild plants to make cold side dishes.

Qin Qing was in awe of the culinary creativity ingrained in her fellow countrymen.

They also shared amusing incidents since arriving—exaggerated bugs, strange plants, that sort of thing.

These soldiers found joy even in extreme environments.

After dinner, some organized games.

Camouflage-clad soldiers wrestled in the open ground, thoroughly enjoying themselves, excitement written all over their faces.

Under the starry night, the rescue unit assembled in the early hours for departure.

Qin Qing stood in front of her tent, watching the solemn and silent lines of soldiers.

Among them was Yuzai, who had guided her earlier. He stood in the front row.

At that moment, Yuzai’s System Panel had turned black.

Her heartbeat quickened—this was the first time the upcoming mission truly felt real.

The battlefield.

Just hours ago, this group had laughed and eaten with her. Now they were heading to a battlefield.

A modern, high-intensity battlefield.

Many of them were very young.

The word “war” had almost vanished from the vocabulary of peaceful times.

For most people, it only appeared in a few pages of historical text.

But it never truly disappeared—and for some people, it was still dangerously close.

At the front stood the officer who had come with Yang Anguo to escort her. He wore the same camouflage as the soldiers and was overseeing the equipment checks.

The Commander and several others stood not far from the unit, watching them.

Qin Qing walked up to the Commander and whispered a few words.

The Commander nodded and beckoned the officer over.

He jogged over, stood at attention, and saluted.

“Awaiting your orders, Commander.”

The Commander gave him a few quiet instructions.

The officer looked at Qin Qing, eyes sharp like a freshly honed blade.

Qin Qing, accustomed to all kinds of scrutiny and evaluation, remained calm.

The officer said, “Follow me.”

Qin Qing followed him to the front of the unit.

The soldiers’ eyes shifted to her sudden appearance. No one spoke.

The officer said, “The following names, step forward when called.”

“Yes, sir!”

A resounding reply.

The officer stepped back and stood at ease behind and to the left of Qin Qing.

Qin Qing got straight to it, calling out names.

“Fifth from the left in the front row.”

“Here!”

Yuzai stepped out.

“Second from the left in the third row.”

“Here!”

He stepped beside Yuzai.

Standing straight, posture impeccable.

Qin Qing called out three more. They stood together, glancing toward their officer with puzzled looks.

The officer said, “At ease.”

No explanation followed.

Qin Qing walked up to them.

On their black System Panels, she saw their ages.

Yuzai, sergeant third class, 22 years old, six years of service.

Kong Fang, sergeant second class, 23 years old, five years of service.

Liu Yang, lieutenant, 23 years old, five years of service.

…

All younger than Qin Qing.

Among civilians, this would be the age of just stepping into society, some still pampered at home.

Yet they bore the weight of the nation with their lives.

Qin Qing stood before them and raised her hand, palm up.

No grand ceremony. A small glow, like a firefly, formed at the tip of her middle finger.

All eyes were fixed on that little orb of light.

She held her hand upright, and the orb hovered three inches in front of Yuzai’s brow. She gently curled her middle finger, flicking the light forward—it disappeared into his forehead.

Yuzai’s eyes widened. He looked as though he wanted to touch his forehead, but seeing his officer’s stare, held back.

She did the same for the other four. Each received a glow between the brows.

That was a blessing, granted from her share of karmic virtue.

She said to them, “It won’t hurt you. It’s a blessing—to ward off a fatal blow.”

After speaking, she raised both hands. Countless sesame-sized lights scattered from her palms into the ranks.

“May you all win swift victory and return safely.”

–

Duan Weilan’s mission failed—before it even began.

His task had been to pose as a businessman, get close to the local tycoon Quentin, win his trust, and acquire or trade for a document of critical importance to their side.

No one expected a well-guarded banquet to be suddenly attacked.

Duan Weilan, along with other wealthy guests, was taken hostage. Everything on him was stripped, and he lost contact with his organization.

After several transfers, they were taken to the criminals’ hideout.

The culprits were the locally infamous and feared Black Python Gang.

Once they arrived, the hoods over their heads were removed.

The sudden sunlight stung eyes that had long been in darkness.

The hostages were shoved and thrown onto a flat clearing. Around them and atop the surrounding walls and towers stood gun-toting bandits.

Dozens of guns aimed at them. Hours ago, these elegantly dressed tycoons now huddled like rabbits, trembling.

One young man shouted, “Let me go! My family has lots of money!”

He wasn’t the only one—others also tried to trade wealth for safety.

Bang…

The first young man collapsed, eyes wide open, a bloody hole in his forehead.

From the back of his head, blood mixed with white viscous matter oozed out.

In front of them, a short man tilted his head and slid the freshly fired gun back into his waistband.

“Big Brother didn’t say to talk. You speak without permission—this is what happens.”

Silence fell instantly. Even sobs were stifled—only silent tears flowed.

An old man and a younger one rushed to the corpse, hugging it, eyes filled with hate as they stared at the shooter and the man seated prominently up front.

Bang…

The older man fell onto the body.

The gun was aimed at the younger one.

The Big Brother in front finally spoke.

“What are you doing? Take it easy. If the whole family dies, who are we going to make money off of?”

The short man holstered his gun.

“Remember—control your emotions. Show Big Brother some respect.”

The young man had narrowly escaped. Lying on the ground, his shoulders trembled. He didn’t dare look at the gang members again. A dark wet patch spread on his pants.

He wasn’t alone. No one else dared lift their heads. They avoided all eye contact with the bandits.

Two corpses lay in front of them. Not everyone could suppress their physical reaction—someone vomited on the spot.

A nearby bandit cursed, shouting, “Didn’t earn a damn cent and now I have to clean up after you?”

He shoved his gun against the man’s forehead. “You made the mess. Lick it clean.”

Even Duan Weilan felt physically sick at the scene—let alone the others.

He heard retching sounds around him, but under the barrel of a gun, people forced it all back down.

The survivors were in utter disarray.

Only a single encounter with the bandits had broken them mentally, grinding them down into total submission.

That “Big Brother” laughed heartily at the sight. “I thought you’d have more backbone. Just a bunch of pigs waiting for slaughter.”

No one dared to retort.

The bandits roared with laughter, finding great pleasure in making these once high-and-mighty elites grovel.

Duan Weilan kept himself hidden among the crowd, trying to look just as broken as the rest, while quietly observing the hideout. Even if it wouldn’t help much.

He’d been taken right under his contact’s nose. He firmly believed the organization would send a rescue team.

He did everything he could to keep a low profile, reduce his presence, and hold out until help came.

But four days had passed.

He was beginning to lose hope.

Even if the organization could somehow locate the bandits in this foreign land, the sheer size of their force and the fortifications here were enough to chill anyone’s heart.

Still, Duan Weilan didn’t give up. He paid attention to everything about the hideout, analyzing and memorizing details.

At the same time, he hadn’t forgotten his mission: get close to the target businessman.

They were all crammed into a narrow shack.

Really narrow.

Aside from the corner with the waste bucket, the rest of the space barely allowed them to lie down side by side.

The heat inside was oppressive, and the contents of the bucket—waste and vomit—fermented faster in the heat, filling the room with a nauseating stench.

For the rich, this was torture.

But humans are adaptive. By the second day, Duan Weilan felt like his sense of smell had gone numb. He couldn’t quite smell the stench anymore, even though he knew it was worse than the day before.

They were only given one meal a day: a bowl of water and a lump of dough that was somewhere between bread and a steamed bun—disgusting, and even worse to eat in such an environment.

The water wasn’t exactly clean either.

They could have better food and water—at a price.

On the first day, the bandit delivering food made an offer: crawl once around the yard with a dog collar on, and you’d get upgraded rations.

On day one, the rich clung to their pride.

Duan Weilan had a spot further from the bucket. That first day, he used his “prime” location to trade with someone near the bucket for half a piece of dough.

He didn’t do it for food, but because that was where his target was.

The target was an overweight businessman who couldn’t handle hunger or thirst.

Duan Weilan gave the man the extra dough, earning some initial goodwill.

By day two, someone gave in to the promise of fresh water and soft bread.

The environment was a powerful force of change.

By day three, seeing someone else do it first gave more captives the courage to crawl with the collar.

The target businessman didn’t—he was too fat.

These past few days, Duan Weilan had been working to win him over.

He shared part of his food and water.

He told him about the “powerful family” behind him, promising that they would come rescue him.

The businessman might have believed him—or maybe he just needed a glimmer of hope. He asked Duan Weilan to help get him out too when the rescue came.

Duan Weilan agreed, in exchange for not money or business, but a certain piece of critical information.

Only then did the businessman’s dull eyes show a faint glimmer of life as he looked at Duan Weilan.

He agreed.

Nothing is more important than survival.

For days now, the bandits had only tortured them.

No mention of money—yet.

But no one believed they’d go through all this for free.

Duan Weilan suspected the bandits didn’t just want ransom payments.

They wanted more.

But the businessmen likely wouldn’t willingly offer it. It was common to hide assets in risky places.

So the bandits used physical and psychological torture to break them down—turning them into beasts with no will of their own.

It was the fourth day.

The businessmen locked in the same shack as Duan Weilan had already cracked mentally, one by one.

He figured the torture phase was almost over. Maybe tomorrow, the knives would come out.

He’d heard of similar kidnapping stories in this region.

A group of rich businessmen kidnapped and gathered together. The bandits didn’t demand a single ransom for release—they made them buy their lives day by day.

For example, one hundred million dollars would buy you one day.

Every morning, the captives were brought out to transfer funds. If you paid, you lived another day.

No money? One bullet.

One day at a time, even the wealthiest would eventually run dry.

And that would be the end.

These were men who lived on the edge, born from hardship.

They resented the tiny elite holding most of society’s wealth.

Living each day with a knife to their throat left their minds warped.

They enjoyed watching the rich suffer, despair, and degrade themselves.

Duan Weilan’s lips had become a hardened crust from dehydration. His throat was dry and sore.

He thought: if these bandits started playing the “life extension” game, he’d probably be the first to take a bullet.

Maybe even tomorrow.

What a pity—he hadn’t completed his mission.

What a pity—he wouldn’t be able to rest beneath his homeland’s soil.

He loathed this land, steeped in violence and filth.

But it was likely this was it. After he died, his body would be tossed in a pit with everyone else.

The organization wouldn’t be able to identify his remains. His parents would have to bury an empty coffin and call it his grave.

He wondered: with his mission incomplete, would he still earn the honor of a red flag draped over his coffin?

After his death, his father would probably swallow his grief and say he was proud of his son. His mother—he couldn’t even bear to imagine her sorrow.

And his wife… he didn’t dare think about her.

If he’d left a child behind, perhaps things would be easier for his wife and parents.

But…

Then again, maybe it was for the best.

Without him to hold her back, maybe his wife could start over sooner.

Perhaps the last kindness this world showed him was the narrow crack between the planks where he lay, letting in a sliver of moonlight before his end.

Eventually, even that moonlight vanished.

Perhaps dawn was near.

In a haze, Duan Weilan thought he heard the stirrings of a crowd, the crackle of gunfire.

Strangely, he thought he heard his mother tongue.

Was he hallucinating from hunger?