Chapter Five: I Am the Mad Dog, First Shot—Born to Kill?

Gong Zhigang’s body went rigid, and several cold beads of sweat streamed down from his temples like little rivers. The soldiers all around, wary and constrained, could only watch as the Polar Bear pressed a handgun against Gong Zhigang, forcing him to retreat step by step. Their own weapons remained raised but they dared not move any closer.

“Damn it, I was too careless!” Lei Dong gritted his teeth so hard they creaked, wishing he could slap himself for not realizing sooner that someone was feigning death.

He could shoot, and he was certain he could kill the “Polar Bear” with a single bullet. But the enemy’s grenade had already been stripped of its safety pin; the slightest looseness of his grip and it would explode within two seconds. What if Gong Zhigang was hurt then?

But not shooting meant watching helplessly as his comrade, his brother, was dragged step by step into mortal danger.

A flurry of thoughts spun through Lei Dong’s mind like a carousel, making his head throb. Gritting his teeth, he forced himself to calm down, pushing aside his distracting fears. He exhaled slowly, pressed his right eye to the scope again, narrowing his left eye, and scrutinized both the Polar Bear’s actions and the surrounding environment.

Suddenly, Lei Dong was stunned. In the scope, Gong Zhigang’s steps were still stiff and faltering, but the panic previously on his face had vanished, replaced by a sharp, focused look. His small, narrow eyes darted about, constantly scanning.

With his full awareness, Lei Dong perceived that beneath Gong Zhigang’s rigid stance, his every vein and muscle—hidden by jungle camouflage—moved like agile little snakes, tensing and relaxing. It was clear that after the initial shock, Gong Zhigang had quickly shed his fear and was gathering his strength, waiting for the right moment to strike back at his captor.

Lei Dong considered for a moment, then carefully removed the magazine from his Type 21 sniper rifle, emptied the remaining rounds, and replaced them with armor-piercing bullets—sharper, longer, more penetrating—from his pouch. He loaded them one by one, then quietly chambered a round.

In the distance, Zhang He noticed Lei Dong’s actions and, though he had meant to stop him, was unexpectedly overcome by a surge of confidence. Watching Lei Dong’s deliberate, steady movements, he felt an inexplicable trust: Lei Dong would not act rashly. If he fired, he would not miss.

Zhang He didn’t know where this certainty came from, but his intuition insisted, “Let him do it!”

He brushed his throat mic and spoke each word clearly: “Wait for the perfect moment. Make absolutely sure.”

“Understood,” Lei Dong replied softly, a surge of pride at being trusted washing over him. He pressed his eye to the scope again, watching every move of both the Polar Bear and Gong Zhigang, missing nothing.

The mountain path was rough. The Polar Bear, gun in one hand, grenade in the other, forced Gong Zhigang backward until they reached the edge of a small grove. The grove was near the foot of the mountain, with flat ground to the left and a steep forty-five-degree slope to the right, below which flowed a gentle stream.

The Polar Bear believed that if he could reach the trees, with better cover and a hostage, his chances of escape would multiply. The drugs were lost, his mercenary squad wiped out, and though his boss back home would surely punish him for the loss—perhaps even hunt him worldwide—that was a problem for another day.

In this world where the strong prey on the weak, survival is all that matters, isn't it?

The Polar Bear sneered, jabbing his pistol into Gong Zhigang's temple. “Into the trees—” he snapped.

In his mind, the rookie he held hostage would meekly obey, but as his pistol touched Gong Zhigang’s temple, before he could finish his command, everything changed in an instant.

Gong Zhigang tilted his head slightly, bent his knees, shifted his legs into a forward feint stance, his body sinking. Suddenly, his right shoulder jerked, and he drove his back with full force into the Polar Bear’s chest.

“Now! This is it!” Lei Dong, who had been watching Gong Zhigang intently, did not hesitate. He squeezed the trigger. With a soft “phut!”, the bullet flew.

Gong Zhigang’s slam was immensely powerful. The Polar Bear’s chest and ribs snapped with a rapid series of cracks. His arms went weak, and before he could react, a 12.7mm armor-piercing bullet tore through his left forearm, spinning out in a split second, then twisted in midair and slammed into his right forearm.

Two dull, sharp cracks sounded as the massive force blew both of the Polar Bear’s forearms into sprays of blood. The pistol and grenade fell simultaneously. Gong Zhigang kicked the grenade away, sending it flying dozens of meters, then spun and chopped the Polar Bear’s throat with a hand edge, followed by lightning-fast punches to his chest and abdomen. The Polar Bear staggered, blood gushing from his mouth and splattering Gong Zhigang.

Far away, the grenade exploded with a thunderous roar. Hundreds of shrapnel shards, each less than ten grams, whirled out in chaotic, unpredictable paths.

Shrapnel hammered the already-reeling Polar Bear, turning his back into a sieve.

Lei Dong, having fired his decisive shot, leapt forward like a lion. In moments, he reached Gong Zhigang, who was still pummeling the Polar Bear’s body.

From the moment Gong Zhigang struck, the Polar Bear had been utterly powerless. He spat out the last blood from his lungs, a dark red jet arcing through the air as his huge body collapsed like mud, his mind never catching up with what had happened. His last thought: “Why did that damn bullet curve?” Eyes wide, the Polar Bear’s body finally slumped to the ground, unwillingly.

“Shit!” Lei Dong had just reached Gong Zhigang and was splattered by the Polar Bear’s final mouthful of blood. Reflexively, he licked his lips—salty, with a hint of bitterness, the taste filled his mouth. “So this is the taste of blood,” he thought, a surge of strange satisfaction rising from his core and flooding his body. Almost simultaneously, a different, restless agitation took hold, laced with excitement. The complexity made him uneasy, his mood suddenly irritable. With a kick, he sent the Polar Bear’s mangled corpse flying several meters, where it crashed to the ground with a heavy thud.

He spat a bloody glob. “Damn bastard, didn’t know when to quit!”

After this almost spiteful act, Lei Dong’s frustration vanished completely. He turned to Gong Zhigang, smirking. “Well, kid, that was satisfying, wasn’t it?” But before he finished, Gong Zhigang’s face went pale. Clutching his chest and mouth, he gagged and collapsed weakly to the ground.

“What’s wrong? Are you hurt?” Lei Dong was alarmed.

The chaos had made it hard to keep track, and Lei Dong couldn’t be sure Gong Zhigang hadn’t been hit by shrapnel.

He quickly turned Gong Zhigang over, seeing patches of drying blood and feeling a chill in his heart. “Sergeant, what’s wrong? Talk to me!”

Gong Zhigang seemed to have lost all strength, lying limp in Lei Dong’s arms, his face bloodless, eyes unfocused, lips trembling as he stammered, “I…I killed someone…”

Before Lei Dong could respond, hurried footsteps approached. Zhang He and Han Changfeng arrived with Liang Huijun and Wang Xuesong. Seeing the scene, Zhang He breathed a long sigh of relief. “At least nothing went wrong!”

But then he noticed Lei Dong and Gong Zhigang’s state and tensed. “Are you hurt?” he asked anxiously.

Lei Dong had already checked Gong Zhigang with his senses and found no injuries. He shook his head. “No…” But Gong Zhigang remained in shock, mumbling, “I…killed someone…I killed…”

Zhang He relaxed, as did Han Changfeng and the others, but exchanged heavy, sympathetic looks. They glanced meaningfully at Lei Dong and Gong Zhigang.

Lei Dong looked at the instructors in confusion, unsure why their attitudes changed, until Zhang He scolded, “We thought something had happened to you, scared us half to death!”

For a soldier’s first time in battle, with tension at its peak, after a life-or-death struggle and a sudden victory, the release could bring overwhelming physical and psychological discomfort. Zhang He briefly explained, “And both of you killed with your bare hands, covered in blood and gore. It’s normal to react this way.” He sighed deeply. “After all, we’re all human. The first time you kill someone, it’s hard to accept—psychologically and morally. Even seasoned veterans struggle with it. No one is born a killer…”

A sudden crash of realization struck Lei Dong, as if someone had slammed his head with a heavy object or an old train was thundering through his mind. He stood abruptly, mouth open, but only managed a few incoherent sounds. His face turned deathly pale.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” Zhang He was startled by Lei Dong’s sudden change. “Why are you only now—”

But Lei Dong didn’t hear the rest. He didn’t know how he got back to base, only that for days, one voice echoed endlessly in his mind: “I am… a born killer…”

He couldn’t remember how he’d returned. For over ten days, the scenes from the battlefield replayed in his head, every detail vivid.

The excitement before battle, the thrill of lining up the crosshairs on a vital target, the cool focus as he fired, the satisfaction in every muscle when the bullet smashed an enemy’s skull or pierced a heart. And, most of all, the strange agitation, the primal pleasure when blood splattered his face, the thrill from deep within as he “whipped the corpse”…

It wasn’t regret. If he hadn’t killed, his comrades—his brothers—might have died.

Nor was he afraid. Neither the smoky battlefield, nor the blood, nor the hideous faces of slain foes unsettled him. In fact, he almost… enjoyed it.

But it was precisely this enjoyment of killing that made Lei Dong doubt himself to his core: Why did killing another human fill me with excitement? Why does recalling it still bring such pleasure?

Am I truly a heartless, bloodthirsty monster, indifferent to human life?

Am I, deep in my soul or even in my genes, a natural-born killer?

Tormented by these questions, Lei Dong lost his appetite and sleep, even as Gong Zhigang recovered and returned to normal. Gong Zhigang, desperate, hovered around him, pleading, “For heaven’s sake, please snap out of it…”

In the days that followed, Lei Dong’s performance suffered; he hesitated constantly in training, his tactics a mess.

To keep such a promising soldier from spiraling, Zhang He tried every method, talking to Lei Dong daily: “The army is a legitimate instrument of violence—we exist to destroy the enemy. If you don’t kill them, they’ll kill your brothers. Think of the police and border guards murdered by the enemy. Think of all the innocents ruined by drugs…”

But Lei Dong was unmoved, repeating only: “I’m a born killer…”

Zhang He was nearly driven mad. “Why didn’t I notice before how stubborn this kid is?”

Out of options, Zhang He finally patted Lei Dong’s shoulder. “This can’t go on. Think carefully—if there’s a family member or friend who can help, give them a call.”

“Family? Friends? Call?” Lei Dong finally responded, only to fall into deeper confusion. Who could he talk to about this?

His father? That gruff, hot-tempered career soldier whose only concern was eliminating the enemy with minimal loss—would he have the patience for this sort of heart-to-heart?

His mother? That gentle southern woman already worried sick about him every day—how could he tell her, only to add to her burdens?

Clearly, the entire special operations detachment, even the whole theater command, took this case seriously. None of them had seen anything like it. Usually, after a first kill or first blood, apart from a few with nerves of steel, most soldiers would experience discomfort—a clash between the violence of battle and their lifelong moral education. Some time or a psychologist usually helped them adjust.

Even police officers, after firing their weapons for the first time—even if they hit no one—are given counseling. In peacetime, moral and psychological issues heavily impact soldiers, only being forcibly suppressed or hidden during large-scale war.

But even in wartime, these issues are only repressed temporarily. Afterward, they often resurface as severe postwar trauma, casting long shadows over veterans’ lives.

In foreign cases of “war syndrome,” many veterans endure long-term depression, insomnia, nightmares, memory loss, poor concentration. These psychological injuries can even damage their physical health—chronic fatigue, unexplained weight loss, muscle and joint pain, breathing difficulties, even teeth falling out.

The Federated States of Minia and the Loeu Alliance invested massive resources into studying these phenomena, but no definitive answer emerged—biochemical theories, radiation, vaccines, and so on, all debated endlessly.

But Lei Dong’s case was clearly different. He didn’t have nightmares or tension or aversion; instead, killing made him feel excited. And he doubted his own morality, fearing he was a killer at heart.

If this soldier really was, as he feared, subconsciously filled with violent impulses, what then?

Should they do nothing and let a potential psychopath remain in the ranks—a risk to his comrades?

Lock him up? But he hadn’t committed any crime; he’d killed enemies and rescued the police, earning merit. Would it be right to imprison him? And what would the others think?

Discharge him? Aside from the waste of training a capable special forces soldier, sending someone with so much violence and training back into society would be like planting a bomb among civilians—utterly irresponsible.