Everyone was silently contemplating Song Heping's words just now.

After speaking, Song Heping put away his pistol and patted Naxin's shoulder: "Remember, only those who are not afraid to die have the right to live!"

Samir slammed his fist onto the sandbag beside him, raising a cloud of dust. With red eyes, he roared, "Song is right! If you run, you're sheep! If you stay, you're wolves! Even if we die, we'll knock out all the teeth of those 1515 scum! Let them have nightmares for life! Brothers! Hold strong! Allah is watching us!"

"Hold strong!"

"Fight them! Bet it all!"

"Let Ihassan taste the nightmare!"

The desperate ashes in the eyes of the last fifty members of the Suicide Squad were reignited by Song Heping's words.

They no longer thought about breaking out or seeking a way to survive. They only wanted, in their final moments, to become the hardest bone lodged in the throats of the 1515 militants!

South Bank, behind the command post on the mound.

Ihassan put down the binoculars, the lenses covered in sweat and dust.

He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead vigorously, where it was drenched with cold sweat.

At that moment, his face appeared extremely sullen.

His hands trembled slightly.

Not from anger, but from an emotion he was desperately trying to suppress but couldn't eradicate — fear.

Through the binoculars, the charred positions on the North Bank were still clouded with smoke.

He saw those shadowy figures, sparse and weary, yet still moving, still building makeshift defenses.

In a daze, he seemed to see that figure — the "Devil of Ashala Town," whose real name was Song Heping, a Chinese.

Four hours!

An entire four hours!

He had deployed more than two thousand five hundred men!

His elite assault team was nearly wiped out, and the five hundred men of the most fanatical "Martyr Camp" were destroyed.

Ordinary infantry rushed forward like oil being poured, wave after wave fell on the cursed Dry Sand Riverbed.

Corpses were piled like mountains, blood flowed in rivers.

But the tiny piece of land on the North Bank was like an unchewable, unbreakable stubborn rock.

Three hundred men!

Only three hundred men!

How is this possible?

How could they hold out this long?

How could they cause such terrifying casualties?

"Leader, the 7th and 9th attack squads were again repelled... casualties... are heavy."

The adjutant's voice sounded behind him, carrying undisguised exhaustion and a hint of... fear, "Brothers... morale is very low. Many say... say the other side is the Devil... an unkillable Devil... that they are protected by Allah..."

"Shut up!"

Ihassan spun around violently, growling in a low voice, his eyes behind the glasses flickering with restless menace, "What Devil! What protection! That is the enemy! An enemy that must be eradicated! Allah protects us!"

His words were tough, but inside he was screaming madly: Devil?

Perhaps he truly is!

That Song Heping!

He must be the embodiment of a Devil!

He had long heard of this man, of his terrifying battles across several fronts.

Previously, it was said this man had gone to Africa, why did he suddenly appear here?

Yes!

Ihassan's mind suddenly flashed with a name — Avanti!

The Revolutionary Guard's Avanti.

Song Heping had been involved with the Persians for a long time.

There had always been rumors that the Persians would intervene in Illiguo's situation.

Could it be true?

Otherwise, why is he here?

What other cards does he hold?

Thinking of this, cold sweat again covered Ihassan's forehead, and his face turned gloomy.

The adjutant murmured, not daring to speak further.

Another officer responsible for intelligence leaned closer, whispering even lower: "Commander... from the rear... news has just come. The squad we sent to scout the flank... lost contact. Also... there are rumors that Americans might intervene... although the news isn't certain, but..."

"What?!"

Ihassan's heart skipped painfully!

Flank lost contact?

Americans to intervene?

This was the final straw that broke the camel's back.

He quickly raised his binoculars again, looking towards the North Bank.

Under the sunset, that position appeared especially eerie.

Those sparse figures seemed to transform into countless enemies lurking in the shadows.

It seemed to him that continuing to waste time here would lead to a complete and utter ruinous scheme...

Cold sweat instantly soaked his back.

Fear, like cold venom, continuously corroded his logic and courage.

Cannot lose!

He can't afford to lose this pursuit!

He absolutely cannot risk his life and remaining capital here!

"Commander, should we... organize another attack? It's getting dark..."

The adjutant cautiously inquired.

Ihassan's body trembled violently.

He abruptly put down the binoculars, then looked around, seeing the equally exhausted, fearful, and bewildered subordinates.

He saw the mountain of corpses on the riverbed, saw the North Bank position under the sunset like the entrance to Hell.

No!

No more attacks!

This is a trap!

It must be!

Song Heping, that Devil, is just waiting for him to throw the last of his forces in!

"Retreat..."

Ihassan's voice was dry and trembling uncontrollably, "Retreat... order all units... cover each other... immediately... immediately withdraw from combat! Retreat! Get out now!"

He almost shouted the last two words, as if using every ounce of his strength, then felt a dizzying sensation of virtual collapse.

The order to retreat spread like wildfire across the South Bank positions.

The 1515 militants, long tormented to the verge of collapse by fear and casualties, were like pardoned men, almost scrambling, chaotically rushing toward the rear.

Pickup trucks roared to life, kicking up clouds of dust, carrying terrified soldiers fleeing this death-laden valley.

Their panic resembled those of homeless dogs.

North Bank position.

"Did they... did they retreat?"

Samir's voice was trembling, filled with disbelief.

He struggled to crawl to the edge of the fortification and looked toward the opposite bank.

Only dust could be seen billowing, disorderly figures rushing backward, no one attempting to glance northward, let alone fire a shot.

"Retreated... really... really retreated?"

Naxin muttered to himself, tears suddenly flooding his face, mingling with the bloodstains and grime running down, "Did we... did we win?"

"We won the gamble."

Song Heping's voice was so weak it was hardly audible. He closed his bloodshot eyes, his incredibly exhausted face barely managing to pull up a corner of his mouth, revealing a faint smile surviving a calamity.

He raised his hand, looking at his filthy, trigger-pulling-stiffened and cramping fingers, covered in smoke and dirt.

These hands had just choked the throat of fate, once again winning an almost impossible bet.

The fifty survivors, supporting each other, staggered to their feet, gazing at the dust and chaos as the opposition retreated.

There was no cheering, no leaping for joy.

Only a deathly silence.

The last rays of sunset spread across the mountains of corpses and rivers of blood, shining on these fifty figures who had crawled up from the depths of Hell.

In everyone's heart, a strange thought arose —

Alive?

Am I still alive?

Or rather...

Today, I'm still alive...

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by lotustale.com