Chapter Thirty-One: A Violent Collision!

This was a contest that began in utter silence, and throughout his long military career, Lei Dong would recall countless times this battle that could hardly be called fierce.

“Real, life-and-death combat is the only standard by which to measure the results of training.” Many years later, in the preface to the “Celestial Volunteers Training Manual,” which he personally edited, Lei Dong began with these words.

And when interviewed by a certain ethereal, striking, and captivating female immortal reporter from the Celestial Daily, Lei Dong said, “That wasn’t the first real battle I’d ever fought with live weapons—if it can even be called a battle. There was nothing impressive about it, and I made no mistakes. The overwhelming difference in strength allowed me to crush my opponent with ease. Yet I still mention this fight often, because it proves the simplest truth: No matter how hard a warrior trains, no matter how outstanding his results on the practice field, without the baptism of countless real battles, he will always remain a rookie!”

When the reporter pressed him, puzzled and curious, Lei Dong paused to think before replying, “It’s a matter of mindset. On the training ground, no matter how harsh or ruthless your instructor may be, no matter how merciless your comrades, you have an unshakable confidence deep down: they will never truly try to kill you, will never take your life, and will never turn their guns on innocent civilians. But in real combat, you never know what will happen next. You never know what your enemy will do, where his attack will come from, or who his next target will be. Maybe, just a tiny, insignificant oversight is enough to throw all your painstakingly crafted plans into chaos…”

In early summer, Han Capital was unusually free from its usual haze. The sky was a deep blue, the sunlight dazzling. On such a rare day—so clear that even the media’s photographers couldn’t help but praise its transparency—people felt that even breathing became easier.

On this day, drivers traveling along the northern Fifth Ring found themselves, for once, not cursing the weather or the traffic conditions. Instead, a rare good mood filled the air.

But this good mood was quickly shattered.

The fast-moving stream of cars, speeding along at nearly 80 miles per hour, suddenly encountered an obstruction—a massive vehicle appeared ahead, lumbering slowly along the lane. From the enormous spray nozzle at its rear—far larger than the main guns on a battleship—a thick mist of water shot out in bursts, while dozens of smaller nozzles along its sides poured water onto the road.

Everyone recognized it instantly: this was the so-called “smog-busting miracle” that had swept the Republic in recent years, the large water truck fitted with a “high-altitude atomizing sprinkler system,” supposedly capable of effectively combating smog and dust.

Normally, people were used to this, but this particular truck was especially infuriating. Not only was it crawling along, but it was also straddling the dividing line between the two middle lanes, wobbling unsteadily like a rickety wheelchair, its sprays of water forming an almost impenetrable curtain.

A chorus of curses rose up, blending with the screech of tires as cars swerved and braked on the now-slick road. Accents from all over the country filled the air with colorful insults. The water cannon truck, however, remained unmoved, ignoring the torrent of abuse, continuing its leisurely path, oblivious to the fury in its wake.

A teenager with hair dyed red, yellow, and green—looking from afar like a traffic signal—swung his car past the water cannon truck, completely unbothered by the spray. He rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and shouted in the purest local dialect, “Are you an idiot?!”

Perhaps the “traffic light” was too eye-catching, or perhaps his voice too loud and arrogant, but the water cannon truck finally responded—a large hand stretched out of the high window and gave him a fierce middle finger.

“You bastard! Look at you! Think I won’t ram you?!” “Traffic Light” was furious, unleashing another string of curses. But Lei Dong paid no attention, his gaze fixed on that hand protruding from the water cannon truck.

At first glance, it seemed no different from the hands of most veteran truck drivers—a bit larger than average, with thick calluses at the base of the fingers and second joint of the index finger. But Lei Dong instantly saw through it: those slightly curled palms, those almost impenetrable calluses, weren’t from years of gripping a steering wheel. They were the marks of a man who had spent years wielding and firing guns!

A professional gunman? Lei Dong’s heart leaped in alarm. At a moment like this, any unexpected event could tip the scales in unpredictable ways.

After flipping off “Traffic Light,” the hand didn’t withdraw. Instead, it made a subtle gesture toward the Wuling off-road vehicle driven by Aym Navarre, following with a series of swift signals.

Lei Dong let out a slow breath—these were police tactical hand signals, indicating that the police had already responded and were preparing to gradually seal off the road.

But then Lei Dong’s heart skipped a beat. “This is bad!” As the leader of a terrorist organization supported by the intelligence agencies of the Minyan Federation and the Empire of Jepan—always at odds with the Republic’s police and military—Aym Navarre could not possibly fail to recognize these signals!

Sure enough, in his senses, Aym Navarre, who had seemed fairly relaxed, suddenly glanced around suspiciously, his muscles tensing as he sat bolt upright. With his left hand, he yanked open his jacket—buttons popping with a sharp crack—and revealed a chest and abdomen packed with powerful explosives.

His foot slammed down on the accelerator, hands wrenching the wheel. The black Wuling off-roader roared, swerving sharply from the right rear of the Porsche 911 to the left, scraping along the concrete barrier with a teeth-grinding screech, sparks flying as it forced its way past the left side of the 911.

“Damn it! You dare to swerve at me?!” “Traffic Light” shrank back in shock, his rage flaring. But before he could step on the gas to give chase, the roar of another engine filled his ears—a battered domestic Silver Dragon sedan, trailing sparks, shot past him like a missile.

“What the hell?” Watching the Silver Dragon streak by like a supercar, “Traffic Light” could hardly believe his eyes—a junker like that moving at such speed?

Up ahead, chaos reigned. Aym Navarre’s black Wuling off-roader, clearly modified for extra power and reinforced with unknown materials, plowed through the traffic—bumpers flying, car parts scattered everywhere, yet the Wuling itself remained virtually unscathed. Amid the blare of horns and a storm of angry shouts, it sped forward relentlessly.

Lei Dong kept his eyes locked on the Wuling, now less than a hundred meters away. Swerving left and right, he dodged the wrecked cars and flying debris, his gaze icy and focused, foot pressing the accelerator to the floor. In a flash, he was right behind the Wuling, smashing the Silver Dragon’s nose into its rear.

With a thunderous crash, the Silver Dragon almost wedged itself beneath the Wuling, sending the off-roader leaping into the air before slamming back down, bouncing twice with a metallic clatter. The Silver Dragon shuddered, its hood crumpling up in a jagged mess.

“Damn it!” Lei Dong cursed, wrenched the wheel hard, and floored the gas, fighting to control the car. With a sharp turn, he maneuvered around the Wuling, then swung the Silver Dragon’s front end hard into its left-side door.

Another explosive crash—the immense impact finally took effect. The Wuling’s door caved in, and the vehicle was shoved several meters to the right, swaying wildly before lurching forward another dozen meters and, at last, slowing down.