Chapter Forty-Two: Piercing Through Clouds and Mist

High above the vast ocean, beneath a sky thick with ominous clouds, an Yun-18 transport aircraft soared with wings outstretched. According to diplomatic notifications sent by the Republic to all countries along its flight path, this latest military medium transport plane, freshly designed and built, had taken off from the Air Force Base in Yaji City, Qiongnan Province. It carried urgent search-and-rescue equipment and personnel, heading toward the South Pacific in search of Flight 740, with hopes that each nation along the route, out of humanitarian concern, would open their airspace and permit entry.

Perhaps it was the unprecedented severity in the Republic’s wording, or perhaps the recipient nations suspected something was amiss; even those countries habitually aligned with the Minia Federation, generally unfriendly toward the Republic, and occasionally prone to stirring trouble, gave their immediate consent. At the very first moment upon receiving the notification, they opened the skies.

No one knew that, in reality, this aircraft had already secretly departed from a military airfield on the western outskirts of Han Capital at the same time the notification was sent. And aboard were not rescue equipment and personnel as claimed, but all eight members of the Third Squad of the Furious Dragon Unit, along with their combat gear.

After its clandestine takeoff from Han Capital, the plane made a stop on a newly constructed reef at the southern tip of the Republic’s Hainan territory—a landing strip barely two kilometers long—refueled, and then ascended once more, cutting through the clouds into the depths of the boundless sea.

Such a long flight would normally induce a profound sense of loneliness, but aboard this aircraft, that problem simply did not exist.

Inside the cabin, the squad members leaned against their enormous military backpacks, legs sprawled across the floor, seeking the most comfortable positions to conserve their strength for the impending battle.

Upon closer inspection, however, each was occupied with something unique.

Huang Xiwen rested against his pack, head slightly raised, eyes half-closed, lost in thought. Song Jingang polished his custom-made “King of Guns.” Luo Haoran’s weapon lay beside his legs as he muttered softly, reviewing the specifications of various explosives. Meanwhile, Lang Tianyu and Bei Shiliang, guns laid across their knees, grinned as they watched Wuyun ramble on relentlessly.

“Boss, can’t you give me a break?” Wuyun, cradling his head, his face carefully camouflaged, contorted his features into a look of utter despair.

Lei Dong, head lowered, tore open the packaging of his specialized sniper rounds. His fingers caressed the bullets from tip to casing like a lover’s touch, using only his sense of touch to pick out the flawlessly smooth, mirror-like rounds, pressing them one by one into the magazine. Any bullet with even a hint of burr at the connection between the tip and casing, no matter how minuscule—a tenth of a hair’s width, utterly negligible for shooting—he set aside, filing them down meticulously.

This practice did not enhance the bullet’s power, but improved its stability and accuracy upon firing. For a sniper who demanded perfection, this detail was paramount.

It was one of the few habits Lei Dong had developed through years of rigorous training.

Though the Republic’s design and manufacturing standards had improved greatly, and industrial errors in specialized sniper rounds for special forces had become nearly negligible, Lei Dong had discovered during training that even a few microns’ imperfection could affect accuracy.

Even if such effects were minuscule, for Lei Dong—whose compulsive perfectionism rivaled that of a Virgo—it was intolerable.

Thus, before training or combat, like snipers from two decades ago, he would inspect and polish every round in detail—a personal ritual.

For someone with an exceptionally powerful spiritual sense, who could control every muscle with exquisite finesse, and who, at the training base—a factory attached to Zhao Capital Prison’s labor camp—had received professional machinist training, reaching advanced technician standards in mere days, such work was hardly taxing.

So, Lei Dong had the leisure to polish his bullets while lifting his head and smirking, “What now, Young Master Wuyun?”

“What now? You dare ask what now?” Wuyun rolled his eyes in indignation. “You, a grown man, having overwhelming abilities so that none of us can catch a break is one thing, but your wife is just as extraordinary. Is there any hope for the rest of us?”

As soon as Wuyun finished, everyone burst out, chiming in agreement— even the usually serene Huang Xiwen joined in.

Lei Dong laughed heartily, “Keep going, I love hearing this!”

“Drop dead!” a chorus of middle fingers rose, though none could help but envy Lei Dong’s luck.

When they first met, everyone had been struck by An Jing’s stunning beauty and elegant demeanor. Later, in class, her vast knowledge amazed them even more. Eventually, they heard she had shifted to military studies and earned high praise in military theory circles, but few took these rumors seriously.

Theory was just theory, after all. On the battlefield, it was down to the commander’s improvisation and the soldiers’ valor—a man’s world. Girls? Let them stick to theory.

But today, An Jing’s performance had completely upended their views.

With almost no actionable intelligence, she untangled the mystery with razor-sharp analysis, every word irrefutable, every detail precisely dissected, dragging the truth of an extraordinarily enigmatic event out of the thickest fog, bit by bit, until the final answer emerged.

What vision, what wisdom, what formidable strength! Without An Jing, they might still be stuck, staring at a few scraps of intelligence in utter frustration.

There was no word but “prodigy” to describe such a breathtakingly brilliant, dazzlingly wise woman.

As for Lei Dong himself… best not to mention him. This guy seemed designed solely to shatter others’ confidence.

No matter how grueling the training, he breezed through it. No matter how harsh the demands, he met them flawlessly. No matter how daunting the task, he succeeded, often unexpectedly.

When joking with you, he was like a gentle spring breeze—warm and full of charm. When focused, he was a mountain—steady, imposing, and unyielding. But when angry, he became a bloodthirsty god of slaughter, terrifying even the heavens.

Gradually, an unstoppable idea crept into their minds: when these two combined their masculine and feminine strengths, when their combat prowess and intelligence merged, what kind of deadly blow would their enemies face?

Lei Dong observed his comrades’ shifting expressions, and quietly frowned.

He knew their teasing wasn’t just a way to relax before battle. Wuyun was always talkative, but the others, though united by years of training and combat into a seamless brotherhood and deep mutual understanding, each had their own ways of adapting to the battlefield atmosphere—rarely acting as a group.

Yet now, as they neared the battleground, they still teased him collectively, because they were genuinely relaxed. In other words, they didn’t view this mission as particularly difficult.

This confidence wasn’t recklessness, but stemmed from their harsh training and their undefeated combat experience—a squad hailed as the world’s finest army’s top special forces, sent to deal with a few intelligence agents and terrorists. It was like using an ox to kill a chicken. If not for the high secrecy demanded for this mission, any special forces unit from any army could have handled it with ease.

Yet Lei Dong felt a vague unease.

This feeling stemmed from one fact: that on this plane, there was a “witch”—Shui Yao Xian!

Perhaps the others didn’t fully grasp it, but Lei Dong knew: in every branch of sorcery, regardless of gender, to truly master the craft, one must be a cultivator—at least at the late stage of Qi refinement—to wield certain secret arts that consume vast reserves of spiritual energy.

And such a cultivator, who would seem like an absolute master to ordinary people, how could she have been silently subdued onboard?

There was only one possibility—the enemy possessed an even stronger adept!

After all, the world was not only home to the Republic’s cultivators. There were others with powers to commune with nature and abilities far beyond normal humans. The legendary werewolves, blood clans, and even the mysterious Holy Tribunal of the Light Church—all possessed extraordinary power capable of such feats.

Recalling the heavy worry on Lei Tiangang’s face during the send-off ceremony, Lei Dong felt it necessary to warn his comrades: this operation must be approached with utmost caution!

A piercing alarm suddenly cut through the constant roar of the engines, echoing inside the cabin as the plane began to violently shake.

Lei Dong’s gaze sharpened, then relaxed—it was just turbulence, common for aircraft flying in the upper atmosphere.

But the next development sent a chill through every heart.

The co-pilot, a lieutenant of about thirty, pushed open the cockpit door and hurried into the cabin, his face clouded with anxiety.

“I think we’ve got a bit of trouble.”

Looking at the co-pilot’s grave expression, Lei Dong’s unease grew stronger.