Chapter Fifty: Operation Furious Dragon (Part Fifteen)

Although the defending force opposite had limited combat experience, they were, after all, a well-trained regular army, equipped with some of the finest gear in the world. After overcoming their initial panic, they quickly detected the whereabouts of Leidong and Be Shiliang.

Soon, under the command of a surviving officer, two squads of about twenty men each launched a frenzied assault on the two.

"Charge!" came the wild battle cries as the squads spread out into skirmish lines, recklessly rushing forward.

Behind them, two vehicles mounted with twin-barrel millimeter anti-aircraft guns spewed flames furiously. The deafening roar sent chills down spines and pressed down so heavily that the two barely dared to lift their heads.

Ahead, the advancing soldiers formed inverted triangle formations of three men each: one at the front wielded an 80mm machine gun alongside a 32mm weapon, both spitting tongues of fire, while the rear soldier took careful aim with a 32mm gun.

Behind each squad, two soldiers equipped with grenade launchers continuously fired 35mm grenades in rapid succession toward the enemy’s direction, implementing suppressive fire.

Within this abandoned residential district, buildings were scattered like stars across the sky. The two assault squads used these structures for cover, moving with rapid precision, quickly closing to within 400 meters.

Several infantry fighting vehicles, luckily only lightly damaged, had been hastily repaired and were starting their engines. If these vehicles joined with their cover and fire support, the trouble would only escalate.

“Damn it, they’re even using the Minia Black Triangle Special Forces tactics!” Leidong spat in disdain, secretly admiring the unit’s tactical skill and the commander’s leadership.

He grabbed his rifle and sprinted away, breaking free from the enemy’s fire blockade. Behind a low broken wall, he raised his gun without aiming and fired.

“Bang!” A 12.7mm heavy round struck the anti-aircraft gunner squarely in the forehead, shattering his skull. The gunner collapsed behind the cannon, and the firing ceased instantly. Seizing the moment, Leidong fired again, taking out the gunner of another vehicle’s machine gun, then darted like a ghost into the next sniper position.

A sudden explosion thundered nearby—the booby trap set by Be Shiliang detonated, scattering hundreds of steel balls in a fiery spray that felled several enemy soldiers.

“Charge! Charge!” a sergeant waved his 32mm rifle, shouting wildly in fervor.

“Bang!” A bullet, seemingly from nowhere, tore straight into the sergeant’s mouth, obliterating half his face and skull like a smashed watermelon. The sergeant collapsed, convulsing violently before falling silent.

Leidong, however, had already vanished like lightning before the enemy could react.

...

Staring at the battlefield infrared surveillance radar, Hiroshi Yamamoto’s mind was overwhelmed by wave after wave of bloodlust, his eyes glowing with a crimson light no one could see. Unknown to all, chilling cold seeped from his back, numbing his entire body and soul.

Hiroshi Yamamoto was a lieutenant, squad leader of the 2nd Platoon, 708th Regiment, 162nd Brigade of the Japanese Defense Force. Now, he was the only officer left in the platoon. His superiors, comrades, and subordinates—all had been picked off by enemy snipers within the last fifteen minutes. The tiny red blip on the radar—the cunning fiend who darted and leapt within several hundred meters, firing mercilessly—was a demon, a nightmare etched forever in the minds of his entire unit.

That nightmare began just hours ago with orders from brigade headquarters. As his commander and troops advanced into Kyoto’s city center to quell a massive riot, he had no idea he was stepping onto a road soaked with blood and fire, paved with slaughter and death.

The urban crackdown was going poorly. Though the Yakuza wielded only light weapons—machetes and homemade firearms—they scattered at the sight of soldiers. Only a handful, either recklessly brave or drunk on adrenaline, resisted briefly before being swiftly crushed. Yet the large-scale fighting among tens of thousands and the fires raging everywhere left the troops exhausted, scrambling to put out multiple blazes.

As officers and soldiers grew increasingly irritable and uneasy, a shocking command arrived: the enemy had attacked their post at the Mokukawa Reservoir—everyone was to return immediately!

Yamamoto was furious—who dared such audacity? They were courting death!

But on their way back, they suffered a deadly ambush.

First came a series of violent explosions that crippled infantry fighting vehicles and armored cars. Then, a Cobra attack helicopter was shot down. The sniper, hiding unknown where, methodically picked off the command vehicles. Yamamoto witnessed the battalion commander’s head half blown away by a single shot; the spray of blood and brain matter splattered inches from his face, driving him almost mad with shock, terror, and rage.

Fortunately, the enemy was few, and the platoon quickly regrouped, tracking down two of the vile “rats” and launching a counterattack. But Yamamoto did not realize the real nightmare was just beginning.

On the left flank, that unknown bastard seemed to carry countless grenades and bombs. It was as if he had laid booby traps, incendiary devices, and remote explosives for kilometers around. No matter how carefully his soldiers moved, sudden explosions repeatedly caught them off guard, leaving them battered and dirty.

Even more terrifying was the sniper lurking in the dark. Despite the battlefield radar locking onto his position multiple times and countless soldiers firing at him, not a single hair on his head was harmed.

He sprinted between buildings, hid behind rows of concrete pillars, and darted across the battlefield with movements so swift they left afterimages. His evasive maneuvers were fluid and perfect; no one could ever fix his location.

He fired kneeling, on the run, leaping through the air, shooting head-on, sideways, and behind him. Each shot felled a soldier or officer, each death unwilling and bitter. Those struck down were always the most threatening enemies—threats either to him or to the bomb-crazed maniac.

The battalion commander had half his head blasted away by a bullet.

The chief of staff’s neck was shattered by a single shot.

A squad leader’s heart was pierced by a bullet.

Another squad leader was cut in half.

...

He killed like a ghost, appeared everywhere within the combat zone. It was as if he were a god perched high above, watching the entire battlefield from the heavens.

“Who is he?” Hiroshi Yamamoto shouted in anger and despair.

P.S.: My computer crashed just now; I just finished typing this. Apologies for the delay.