Humanity Forbidden Island [Full Text] - 15

Chapter 208: Crossing the Strait of Terror Again

The tea garden was quiet at night. Perhaps some debt-avoiding moths were lurking under the leaves, happily stealing food, but this didn't affect the harvest. The entire tea plantation was thriving, strongly demonstrating its green vitality. The crisp air was mixed with a faint tea aroma, while Dumo snored heavily, sleeping soundly. Gazing at the starry sky, a sense of longing crept into his heart. He wondered how Luya and the others were doing, whether they could stroll on the deck of the Sea Demon and admire the beautiful starry sky.

The food in his stomach gradually warmed as it digested, and drowsiness spread quickly through his tired body. He didn't know what he was thinking, but he drifted into a sweet dream. Now, Dumo and I could sleep until the sun was high in the sky, no longer worrying about wild beasts from the grasslands attacking us.

There was no wind at night, and the fresh air flowing into our blood drove away all fatigue. So, we didn't even notice when Camilla got up and took the tools to the tea garden to pick tea.

Thankfully, this wasn't a shady inn, and Dumo and I could completely relax and sleep soundly. The heat on our faces gradually intensified, and the melodious chirping of birds filled the air, seeping into our ears and into our dreams. In the distance, we heard the laughter of several working women, carrying bamboo baskets and busily gathering tender tea leaves under the dazzling sunlight.

"Dumo, it's time to wake up." I had just opened my eyes when I quickly squinted again. In the tea garden not far away, the lush green leaves rippled like waves, shimmering and swaying, reflecting the sunlight so intensely that my pupils couldn't adjust for a moment.

Dumo, hovering between sleep and wakefulness, heard my call and struggled for a while before slowly sitting up, his plump body bent. He spread his legs, his large black head drooping, swaying from side to side as if trying to stir up the brain matter inside. Dumo was sleeping so deeply that he was somewhat groggy. Finally, he scrambled off the bamboo bed, picked up the ladle from the large water vat in front of the thatched hut, and vigorously wiped the sweat from his face.

“Let’s have some breakfast and then leave, aiming to reach the strait between Réunion and Mauritius before dusk.” It seemed Dumo had been thinking all night, increasingly aware of the seriousness of the situation. As the mission drew closer, he gradually toned down his usual wit and humor.

I didn’t say anything, but devoured the large pot of beef stew with potatoes and salmon left over from last night. Dumo, as if in a competition with me, also ate until he was clutching his stomach, burping incessantly. This journey would still be on foot; we could only carry one meal, and before heading to the sea, we couldn’t eat too much, so this meal was the best way to replenish our energy.

When we left, Dumo didn’t say goodbye to Camilla. The woman seemed to know we were leaving, but she kept her head down, silently gathering tea leaves, only occasionally chatting and laughing with the women around her. I thought she must be reluctant to part, especially when a man was leaving.

Behind the small hut was a range of rolling hills. Climbing to the top, we could see rows of low buildings, huddled together as if afraid of the cold. I sensed this was a small county town, but it lacked the prosperity it should have. Judging from the size and development of the plantations, everyone here should be wealthy. Local capitalists took from the people, yet transferred their enormous profits to the big cities, only providing the island's serfs and laborers with some basic infrastructure.

"Let's walk along the hillside, bypassing that residential area and factory from the side, to avoid unnecessary trouble," Dumo said, striding forward. I understood his meaning; he was afraid there might be spies or agents mixed in with the crowd, watching two strangers who had suddenly appeared. As I followed behind him, I kept turning my head to look at the houses and the diesel cars driving on the narrow roads, large quantities of fresh, plump agricultural products being transported into factories.

Having spent several years in an unnamed town and then been stranded on a deserted island for more than half a month, seeing this somewhat urban scene now stirred a feeling in my heart. Dumo seemed preoccupied today; he was constantly thinking about problems, completely different from the talkative Kodo I was before.

I'd rather Dumo be preoccupied with certain thoughts; otherwise, his constant nagging leaves me no time to think about Yi Liang and the others. More importantly, I dislike strangers being overly enthusiastic towards me; it makes me unconsciously wary, constantly on guard against those who hide daggers behind smiles.

This dilapidated little county town is indeed pitifully small. My military boots trod across the uneven hillsides, making my feet bumpy and uncomfortable.

But I always looked out, observing the pedestrians on the main street. They looked like ants. The most striking phenomenon I noticed was that there seemed to be no one strolling around; most people were busy and tense. The value they painstakingly created was being exploited in the supply chain, like being at the bottom of the food chain.

Camilla worked hard under the estate owner's employment. Once she handed over the primary products, the subsequent warehousing, transportation, packaging design, retail, wholesale, and the listed company were no longer her concern.

On the surface, perhaps Camilla herself felt that this was perfectly normal; she had already received her stipulated compensation. In reality, the profit from primary products increases from 1 euro to 10 euros. Capitalists don't need guns and whips; they simply entrust the lowest link in the supply chain to women like Camilla, monopolizing the subsequent links. In this way, the plantation remains the sole means of survival for the poor laborers.

For every euro of value she creates, the capitalists gain ten euros in profit. This cycle continues, leaving the poor with only the freedom to sign contracts.

Reflecting on Camilla's life, I unknowingly walked many miles. The sun on the sea gradually turned red. As we approached the southeastern coast of Réunion, Dumo was already behind me.

Time didn't allow us to detour; we had to cross this lush, thorny forest. With my machete in my right hand, I hacked down the steep slope, felling large swaths of juicy, thorny trees, barely clearing a narrow path. Before nightfall, this shortcut allowed us to reach the sea on time.

“Dumo, you’re not the boss for this mission. I suspect it’s Jason Jodi and the friend he mentioned. Camilla’s family isn’t wealthy. Our passing through and our inconvenience have cost her a lot. If there’s a chance in the future,

could you compensate Camilla for me?” Dumo’s face held a strange, unsmiling expression I’d never seen before, leaving me momentarily at a loss. “Mr. Chase, in an environment where the strong bully the weak and there’s no justice, poverty often protects women like Camilla. If you were her bodyguard, I would definitely give her several thousand euros. Camilla is wise; even if you offered, she wouldn’t accept it. She understands her circumstances.”

Dumo chuckled as he took off his clothes, buying time to cross the strait. There must be someone waiting for us in Mauritius; otherwise, he wouldn’t be so suddenly enthusiastic.

"Hehe, you're not only a hero, but also a millionaire. If there's a chance in the future, could I have a look at those twelve pigeon-egg-sized gems? It would broaden Dumo's horizons." He chuckled again, stretching his thick limbs and trying to loosen his muscles.

"Oh, this news spread from the Sea Demon to the mini-submarine, didn't it? In this world, nothing is more valuable than life. Pirates understand this, so they steal other people's lives for immense value."

Dumo paused, his eyes widening, then burst into laughter. My words had startled him. This also made me realize that he had been cautiously wary of me. His earlier pause indicated that he realized those words sounded like a killer's death knell.

"Mr. Chasing Horse, your physique is frighteningly strong. Every bulging muscle is like a ferocious face. No wonder everyone calls you a killing machine. For a mercenary like you to appear in Southeast Asia is truly legendary." "

Du Mo, I understand what you mean. I killed many of the crew members on the Sea Demon on that deserted island. I had no choice but to treat them with non-aggression and non-aggression. Don't blindly worship me. Luck played a large part in the fact that I'm still alive and talking to you."

"Haha, Mr. Chase, I sincerely admire you and hope to learn more from you in the future." From the first moment I saw Dumo, I felt that he was a man of great hidden talent. However, he overlooked one point: using flattery tactics on a mercenary like me was like trying to steal a chicken and losing the rice—a counterproductive move.

Before going into the sea, we needed to warm up properly, then put on our snorkeling suits and crossed the strait with our surfboards. That not-so-sharp broadsword was something I had stolen from the thatched wall of Camilla's house before leaving. Now I couldn't carry it in the water anymore, because this crossing might take until dawn, and once exhausted, any unnecessary weight would lead to drowning.

The scorching sun during the day hadn't warmed the water between the islands. Holding my surfboard, I kept stepping on the sand and walking towards the deeper sea. There were no waves tonight, so there was no need to tie a rope to Dumo this time.

Dumo, holding his silver-gray surfboard, shouted like a mischievous child and swung his arms vigorously, rushing into the dark depths. I maintained a steady pace with him, allowing me to keep moving forward while conserving my strength for any unexpected emergencies.

"Haha, ha-hi, welcome to Dumo's private pool! Swim to your heart's content! Mauritian food and girls, the kodo beast is about to appear..." He was incredibly excited, as if Mauritius truly had delicious food and beautiful women waiting for him.

"Dumo, if this is your private pool, you'll be the most foolish owner." This black man's playful antics greatly fueled my swimming enthusiasm. "Why do I say that? I've swum with you twice for free; you should compensate me with a gem the size of a pigeon's egg. Haha..."

"Because no one puts a shark in their private pool." The cool seawater gently lapped against my chin. Each time I shouted to the jubilant Dumo ahead, I exhaled a deep breath to prevent choking and bleeding from my nose or throat.

“Oh God, what could be more damaging to the Kodo's confidence in conquering the strait? Can't you say something encouraging? We've only swum less than two nautical miles.”

“Keep your mouth shut and don't splash any unnecessary waves. Sharks might mistake you for a piece of sandalwood.” After reminding the smug Dumo, I continued to paddle cautiously.

On the dark sea, there wasn't a single wave, only the vast expanse of water swaying from side to side under the influence of the morning and evening currents. Therefore, any unnecessary noise could attract sharks.

Chapter 209: Eyes Beneath the Volcanic Island

“Dumo, this time there's no sea breeze or waves, let's not deviate from our course again.” Like geese flying south, we used the waves created by each other to paddle towards our target with the gentlest movements and the fastest speed. “Between

Tamaran and Belombur, there's a small island about the size of an airport, with many fig trees growing on it. Once we get there, we can rest and eat sweet and refreshing fruit.” Dumo must have been very hungry to say that.

The sea before us, neck-deep, still stretched to the horizon. The heavy water sloshed about, making my chest feel tight. I tried to avoid looking ahead, as it would only aggravate my fatigue.

We were both filled with dread, yet there was no turning back. The icy strait, silent in the darkness, dragged us back into exhaustion. Yesterday's hearty meal and rest at Camonya's house were far from enough to alleviate the fatigue accumulated over the past few days.

The eastern sky, as time slowly passed, gradually revealed a pale, deathly white. Dumo and I felt as heavy as lead, finally forced to rely on the propulsion of the waves to move forward slowly.

Fortunately, Dumo described some delicious fruit; this futile attempt to quench our thirst with a glimpse of plums gave us some encouragement. The place where the sweet fruit grew was called Molna Island, at the northern tip of the southwest corner. Later, I learned that the southwest corner wasn't a vague location; its name was similar to the Cape of Good Hope in South Africa.

"Dumo, look at the sea ahead, the silhouette of land is faintly visible." As he spoke, the obese kodo beside him, panting heavily, clung to the surfboard, drooling as if half-asleep.

The seawater tasted salty and bitter; after a night of crossing the strait, he had choked countless times, making Dumo nauseous and constantly spitting out saliva. Finally, he could only leave his mouth half-open, letting saliva drip from the corners of his lips.

Molna Island, shaped like a grain of rice, was nestled in the bay between Tamaran and the southwest corner. When the wind and waves rose, the island's surroundings were relatively safe, and the trees on it grew lush and green, their branches laden with half-red, half-green fruit.

As the sun rose, we crouched like little monkeys in the water, using our boots to wade through the shallow, sandy shore. The water level gradually dropped, and Dumo and I hunched over even lower until we were practically crawling under the thick layer of seaweed piled up along the shore. We looked up at the island for a moment, and seeing no one around, we hopped ashore, dripping wet, and quickly crouched behind a pile of rocks.

We hurriedly took off our snorkeling suits, checked each other's bodies, and finding no signs of jellyfish stings, we slowly cleaned our hair and ears, especially my long hair, which had become soaked with sand and seaweed fragments during our time in the shallows.

Once everything was ready, Dumo, unable to bear the hunger any longer, bent over, his wet bottom sticking out, and struggled to climb the steep rocks, hoping to quickly pick some fruit from a tree to replenish his empty stomach.

But he hadn't recovered his strength, and after climbing for a long time, he still couldn't make it up, like a clumsy bear trapped in a deep pit, anxiously pacing around in circles. I sat on a relatively flat rock, adjusting my breathing to allow my strength to recover quickly.

This was the last time I would smuggle myself across. While floating on the surface of the sea earlier, Dumo had finally revealed the initial mission: Mauritius would be my first stop for killing. "Dumo, if a cheetah fails to catch its prey four times, it will suffer from heart palpitations and become so weak that it starves to death."

My words immediately stopped Dumo's stubborn idea, but he was still hungry, so he picked up stones and threw them at the tree canopy laden with fruit. "Mauritius is quite rich. The delicious food and beautiful women you mentioned, is that all you get from the island's fruits and crabs?"

After saying that, I pulled a palm-sized, bluish-gray crab from a crack in the rock beneath my feet, stuck it on a sharp dagger, and held it up to show Dumo as if to display it to everyone. "Oh, if it were a red crab, it would taste even better. I like to soak them alive in a vinegar jar, take them out after three hours, roll them in hot oil on an iron strainer, and they're crisp and delicious. Then, chug down half a glass of beer, and your stomach will dance with joy."

After hearing Dumo's description, my mouth was already watering, my Adam's apple bobbed a few times, and my gaze returned to the large blue crab struggling painfully on the edge of a knife.

It waved its huge pincers, futilely showing off. Since it couldn't attack my cheek, I only focused on the high-protein crab meat inside the pincers. The more I looked, the more impatient I became. I looked around, trying to find a rock to smash it open and pick some fresh meat to fill my stomach.

"Oh no, Mr. Chaser, just bear with it a little longer. I'll get you some fresh fruit right away. If you don't want to get diarrhea while on a mission, it's best not to eat that raw." Dumo's words came at the right time. Before I could find a suitable rock, the shiny black kodo beast saw through my intentions and urgently reminded me.

I'd tried before, countless near-death experiences, as numerous as the stars in the night sky. Looking at the hard-shelled prey on the knife's edge, fragments of memory involuntarily surfaced in my mind. It was in the Andaman Islands. A major Sri Lankan tea merchant had a significant impact on the Thai market. Due to international law, the government couldn't directly impose trade barriers, so they dispatched mercenaries, forming an assassination team.

Unfortunately, the operation was exposed, and the team was ambushed as soon as they arrived in the Andaman Islands. Clearly, a high-ranking official within the government had been bribed and turned into an informant. Undoubtedly, we were once again used as political cannon fodder.

The elite troops raised by the Sri Lankans were incredibly formidable in battle; we were caught off guard and suffered repeated defeats. Most of the mercenaries were shot through the head and died in the desolate forest. I was the fastest runner, but I couldn't shake off the pursuit. The enemy's superiors must have been furious, hence the death order to kill us all.

Read the full-text novel online, updated faster, all at 16k Literature Network, PC site: www.16k.cn, mobile site: wap.16k.cn. Support literature, support 16k! I ran like a madman, crashing through dense thorny forests and tumbling over chaotic rocks, until a wide riverbank appeared before me. Only then did I realize that running any further was not an option. On such an open plain, no matter how fast I ran, I would die under enemy bullets. Forced by circumstances, I plunged into the mud.

Many corpses lay scattered in the viscous sludge. I grabbed three rotting, foul-smelling bodies and held them beneath me for a full day and two nights, finally wearing down the Sri Lankan armed forces.

Under the heavy cover of night, I cautiously emerged, my heart still pounding. In the dim moonlight, the stagnant swamp was a scene of utter desolation. Will-o'-the-wisps flickered beneath the rustling water plants. At that moment, loneliness engulfed me, as if I were the only person left in the world. My skin itched unbearably. Using the dim moonlight, I tore open my clothes to examine myself. My pale, soaked skin reeked of a foul stench, and blisters rose in patches. It was a pity my gun was lost; otherwise, I might have committed suicide.

Climbing onto the filthy riverbank, my body too weak to walk, I watched the crabs, gorging themselves on human flesh, crawling brazenly beneath my mud-covered legs. Finally, I grabbed a few, stuffed them into my mouth, chewed and swallowed, then vomited. The stench was so intense it numbed all my senses before my stomach could barely stomach the filthy meal.

Back then, how ridiculous it would have been if a Dumo had appeared and warned me I'd get diarrhea. The choice between survival and diarrhea is something most people can't understand—the helplessness, the absolute lack of choice. But I'm far from being that hungry, so there's no need to take the risk.

Even now, I vividly remember the taste of raw crab, especially the three corpses that helped me escape the pursuit. Though black and decayed, the features of young girls were still discernible. I know these innocent people were mostly wives, children, and the elderly, forcibly taken to the Andaman Islands by some organization to be secretly slaughtered.

"Hey, I've picked a fruit, catch it." Just as he finished speaking, a half-hard, half-soft fig flew towards my left eye, which I instinctively caught in my palm. "Quickly throw away that tempting crab; it'll affect your appetite for vegetarian food." Dumo finished speaking, revealing two rows of gleaming white teeth, and grinned smugly.

He'd struggled for ages to finally pick the first fruit. I knew Dumo was even hungrier than I was, but his predicament—unable to climb the cliff or reach the fruit—was rather embarrassing. So, seeing me eat his first harvest made Dumo much more relaxed.

He pinched the eyeball-sized fruit between his thumb and forefinger, wiped it off on his wet clothes to remove the white powder, and then chewed it. A sweet aroma instantly filled his senses, indescribably comforting. "Haha, tastes good, right? If conditions allow, we can pick more and make jam to dip steak patties in."

"Pick some more. This stuff is high in sugar; it'll quickly replenish our energy. Don't forget, we're in the mission area now," I said calmly to Dumo, chewing my food thoroughly.

If we hadn't been held hostage by pirates, wandering with Dumo would have been a very happy thing. I knew in my heart that the ultimate goal was to rescue the women as soon as possible.

At this moment, Jason Jodie's Sea Demon might have left the island. Whether he kept his promise and treated every woman captured on board kindly, I had no way of knowing, nor did Dumo.

"When will I be able to get a gun? Is there any way to obtain funding? Also, I won't kill women and children, nor will I kill political figures who are deeply loved by the people." This was the first time I had mentioned such a sensitive topic to Dumo.

His hand, which was raising to throw fruit, suddenly froze in mid-air, and the joyful smile on his face, anticipating the next fruit rolling down the mountainside, seemed to freeze for a moment. The morning sunlight was extremely weak, rising from the eastern coast of the Indian Ocean, emitting a dazzling light. I stared carefully at Dumo's expression, wishing I could see into his inner world.

"Mr. Chase, please don't worry. I have only received the first part of the mission. This was all relayed to me by Camilla." Hearing this, my heart skipped a beat. Could that unassuming woman, who had suffered so much in life, be a spy planted by the pirates on Réunion Island?

Dumo is telling me all this now because we can no longer return to that plantation. Even though I'm angry, there's nothing I can do now. If I had known back then that Camilla had a mission to carry on the legacy, I would have pressed her for information about the Sea Demon and reminded Jason Jodi to keep his promise again.

Chapter 210: A Feigned Sleep Under the Sand

"Dumo, I've eaten three figs. After resting for another thirty minutes, we'll swim from Molna Island to the Mother Island." Dumo was sweating profusely. He had picked up all the small stones nearby by throwing the figs, going to great lengths, yet he had only managed to collect five.

The rock face facing us still retained the dampness of the receding tide. Some small, blue crabs, about the size of beer caps, crawled like spiders in the crevices of the indented rock face, each one tense, as if terrified by the sight of a dagger stabbing a large blue crab.

Above the rock face, there was a gentle slope, with layers of green leaves covered with small, blushing fruits. For us starving stowaways, the allure was undeniable. The rock face, less than ten meters high, was remarkably smooth, devoid of any vines or roots. So, aside from a group of small crabs lurking in the crevices, even apes couldn't climb it. Without grappling hooks, I simply gave up the idea and let Dumo try his primitive methods.

The food hunt was disappointing. I had imagined being in an orchard, casually picking every ripe, delicious fruit I fancied, stuffing handfuls into my mouth and munching until my stomach was bloated.

But the cold rock face kept us out. Most of the wild fruit Dumo had hit with pebbles fell to the top, wasting half an hour. Only five fruits landed in the crevices and rolled down his buttocks.

This situation greatly embarrassed Dumo, who had been boasting about his adventures while paddling at sea. He hadn't rested well and had actually exhausted himself. Hearing me urge him to land on the main island, he was utterly dejected.

To me, Dumo's personality was quite endearing; sometimes he was like a child, taking trivial matters very seriously. Clutching each other's surfboards, we crawled cautiously along the rocky shore, one in front of the other, providing cover for each other.

Dumo wasn't sure if there were any guards on Morena Island. We only had a dagger for close combat, not even a single bullet in sight, while the Mauritian guards protecting the island were undoubtedly armed and had the right to shoot any suspicious-looking stowaways.

Our build and appearance didn't resemble those of people coming to make a living or those who had met with disaster, so we were naturally suspected of being spies and secretly detained in some secluded little dark room, subjected to interrogation and even torture every day.

Even if there were villages on the island, fishermen who saw strangers entering so suspiciously would immediately report it to their own country's outpost. Dumo and I didn't want to get into such low-level trouble. After running along the coast for a while, the view and road gradually opened up ahead, and we both went into the sea without prior arrangement, circling around the north side of the small island and heading straight for the main island, Mauritius.

White waves roared and rolled, one layer after another, angrily crashing against the reefs on the shore. The surfboard I was holding seemed a bit flimsy. It was high tide, and we had to be extra careful, neither being seen by the island's reconnaissance binoculars nor being swallowed by the waves.

Relying on the little sugar in our stomachs, we were finally washed ashore on the foamy beach by the flying waves around noon. "Mr. Chase, let's find a place to hide as soon as possible. The light is too bright around us; going in now would be too conspicuous."

Judging from Dumo's tone, I knew that this fat kodo beast was exhausted to the limit. He hadn't taken the time to rest on Molna Island, and it was already quite remarkable that he had lasted this long.

“Dumo, look.” As I spoke, I leaned against the rock like a mole, craning my neck to look at the protruding land. “Oh, I know, this area is hilly, that’s why I brought you here to climb the island.”

The mountain's contours were striking, like a giant green stone man swimming with outstretched arms, trying to push Dumo and me back into the undulating sea. The hills on either side, bulging with subtropical vegetation, though not lush and dense, were still verdant and vibrant with life.

The ruggedness of the green plateau was less than one ten-thousandth of that of the desolate island's gorge; the landscape appeared flat and unassuming, almost as if a whip was being cracked to herd cattle and sheep grazing on the slopes. From where Dumo and I were hiding, we couldn't see any signs of human habitation, but it wasn't hard to tell that such excellent natural conditions must have provided a livelihood for mountain people.

The accumulated rainwater in the middle of the plateau had already formed streams, which, visually, seemed far from where we were thirsty. If it weren't daytime, I would have dragged Dumo there as fast as I could, both to relieve our parched mouths and to wash away the sea stains from our skin.

Dumo was already exhausted, lying on his side behind a large, dark green rock, snoring loudly. This guy knew how to choose his spot; even two or three hours later, when the scorching sun beat down on the beach, Dumo was still sleeping soundly.

Clearly, we had to wait until it got dark before we could head up the hills. If the night was still bright enough, we absolutely had to get to that babbling brook and wash the dried salt and sand off our skin.

Because we didn't have an alarm clock, we slept like logs, completely out of it, until a clueless, careless sea crab pinched my index finger painfully, pulling my weary consciousness back to reality.

On the blurry beach before me, thick layers of seaweed lay piled up, and the waves, as if resting after a day's work, lapped and murmured leisurely. A salty, fishy sea breeze blew gently from the dark, vast water, a cool breeze that made my bones feel weak—it felt wonderfully pleasant. (Novel compiled and published on www.bik.com) I stood up, brushed the sand off my clothes, then crouched low on the rocks, like a mole emerging from its burrow, craning my neck to look around. The entire hillside seemed to be asleep; no one knew of

our arrival. Along the five-kilometer stretch of coastline, there were no lighthouses in sight. Mauritian fishermen, returning home at night, wouldn't likely land in this area.

Unexpectedly, Dumo was gone; behind the large rock, only the tracks of a heavy body remained. I quickly checked every pocket on my body, finding nothing missing, then rushed to a large rock, about the size of a wooden barrel. Turning it over, I found the sharp dagger still buried beneath.

I tucked the blade back to my left chest, the hilt angled towards my chest muscles, aligned with my hanging right hand. Because the surroundings had changed; if anything went wrong, I had to draw the dagger with lightning speed and end the other's life.

Dumo is a pirate not to be underestimated. The fact that he was assigned to supervise assassins on high-risk missions, and even after two failed attempts, shows he's no pushover. He's incredibly deceptive. I've already lost one round.

This morning, he lay behind the large rock, soon snoring loudly, actually trying to confuse me and lull me into a nap. I'm sure he got up and slipped away shortly after I fell asleep.

Of course, he wouldn't abandon me, nor would he go looking for food. Even if he appeared before me with four or five pizzas covered in beef, grinning, the messenger, like Camilla from Reunion Island, would have already finished explaining and left. The more I think about

this assassination, the more I realize it's far more serious than a traditional revenge killing. Jason Jody's methods are meticulous; Dumo and I are like puppets, our every move controlled by him.

Dumo will be back soon, and he'll definitely have the next instructions for the mission. That way, even if I torture Dumo to death, I still won't be able to get Jason Jody's true motives out of him.

When a partner goes missing, the worst thing you can do is search aimlessly, especially at night. It's easy to misunderstand and think you've both lost each other, leading to searching for each other and getting further and further apart. I sat alone on the beach, feeling a long-lost loneliness. It was pitch black everywhere, and visibility was extremely limited. Although my stomach was growling with hunger, I had to stay put and wait for that black kodo to return.

At this moment, if only I could build a small fire on the shore, use a branch to hold the giant crab that woke me up, roast it until it was red-hot, then pry open its shell with a dagger and dig out a mouthful of fragrant crab meat—that would taste amazing. Especially those crab claws; slowly sucking them in my mouth would be a powerful stimulation to my taste buds, both delicious and filling.

For some reason, Dumo loved cooking and was passionate about making delicious food, but since I started living with him, except for that one time we feasted on beef stew with potatoes at the plantation, I've almost always gone hungry.

He always loved discussing food, and I could somewhat understand what he was pursuing—it wasn't just about filling his stomach, but a lifestyle, perhaps even containing philosophical insights. Dumo was a hearty and plump man, but a thoughtful fellow.

A full hour passed, and Dumo still hadn't returned. That's when I realized things were far more complicated than I thought. Dumo's prolonged absence was enough to prove one thing: he was in trouble.

The most practical guess was that he must have run up the hill alone, and I still didn't know what lay beyond. I sat up, leaning against a large rock, and carefully examined the hillside, trying to figure out which slope Dumo would have run up.

If the light were better, I could make out footprints on the sand, but now, in the dim moonlight, I could only make out the outline of the hill. On the gray, hazy right ridge, a faint, light-colored concave line was faintly visible; if this area was frequently traversed, it was likely a mountain path.

I had to hurry; delaying until dawn would increase the danger of the operation. If Du Mo couldn't withstand the torture, I believed that before sunrise, a large armed force would be searching along the mountainside.

On this open, long coastline, it would be difficult to avoid a comprehensive capture; my only option would be to dive into the sea and starve to death, saving the dying sharks.

Stepping over large rocks of varying heights, I climbed up a patch of low grass. My military boots, soaked with seawater, had been dried in the sun all day, and now felt dry and comfortable on my feet. After a rapid run, I quickly slipped into a pine forest. The cool mountain air carried the scent of pine berries, and the thick green leaves hung heavily from the canopy, scratching my shoulders.

I gritted my teeth and ran uphill, seizing every opportunity. As long as Dumo was alive, I had to find a way to bring him back. This unexpected factor, if it forced the mission to end, would most likely lead Jason Jody to kill him.

Chapter 211: The Horrifying Yama Factory

. Running along the hills for two or three hours, with dawn approaching, my heart was burning with anxiety, and my pace quickened again and again. The seabirds roosting in the forest were mostly awakened by my advance, flying towards the dark beach in thick mist.

After crossing the last hill, the scene that came into view truly startled me. I had expected to see a glamorous seaside city, but instead, a bright river suddenly appeared before me.

In fact, the river was not fresh water; it was a wide mountain path where seawater flowed in due to the depression in the terrain, forming an excellent waterway. Kneeling on the high ridge, I could vaguely see more than a dozen small wooden boats, ropes tethering them to the tall birch trees on the shore, each swaying slightly with the waves.

Descending from the edge of the hills, there's a ready-made road. Scattered houses line the riverbanks, their drab, gray-toned dwellings appearing mobile; if they wanted to move, they could simply attach themselves to a diesel truck and move.

The residents' lives are small and uneventful; this single road up the mountain is arguably the biggest construction project in the area. I remained hidden in the woods, carefully observing as I slowly descended the path, hoping to spot something that might provide clues.

Having illegally crossed the border, I was unfamiliar with the area, and searching for Du Mo aimlessly was highly risky. Even now, I couldn't pinpoint his possible location or whether he was alive or dead. Reaching the foot of the mountain, my view narrowed considerably, leaving me even more bewildered.

As I was thinking this, a dark-skinned girl with yellowish skin appeared and disappeared in the morning mist at the foot of the mountain path. She seemed to be pushing a dilapidated bicycle, struggling to make her way to the top of the ridge. The girl was about twelve or thirteen years old, with long, messy hair, the temples curled up due to lack of grooming.

The black, worn-out bicycle appeared exceptionally tall and heavy against the backdrop of the frail girl, as if the iron contraption was carrying her rather than pushing her. Her forehead barely reached the handlebars, and behind her heaving head was a white styrofoam box, tied to the seat with dirty hemp rope.

A large, old, crudely made garment, covering the girl, made her look even smaller, almost shrouding her in it. The large red floral pattern on it, made on a farm loom, clearly indicated that she was a poor girl from a poor family, bearing the hardships of life far too early.

To avoid startling the girl and causing her to scream, I quietly circled behind her, using the white styrofoam box as cover, and followed her closely for a full minute. Seeing that she wasn't carrying any explosive devices, I pulled her into my arms, pressing my left hand firmly against her cracked lips.

"Ah..." Before she could finish the sound, my right hand grabbed the crossbar of her bicycle, lifting her and the bike into the dense woods. As I ran, I was careful not to damage the bicycle; if I broke anything in the box, her employer would surely beat her severely.

The girl struggled fiercely in my strong chest; her neck, near her collar, revealed several marks—marks I recognized immediately as signs of beatings. I quickly dodged the trees, running over a hundred meters until I found no one around and the vegetation dense. Then I quickly released the girl, whose resistance was waning, fearing she might faint.

"Can you speak in English?" I asked the girl slowly, letting her know I meant no harm and just wanted to communicate. Her long, curly hair cascaded down, completely obscuring her face, making her look like a ghost emerging from a dry well.

I couldn't loosen my grip on her mouth; if she didn't understand me, she would surely let out a piercing scream, releasing her pent-up fear.

The girl, leaning against the large pine tree, shook her head violently. Her black, waterfall-like hair framing her forehead revealed a pair of tear-filled eyes. She had high cheekbones, single eyelids, and dead-fish-like eyes, hidden behind thin eyelids, devoid of any liveliness. This little one must have had a miserable childhood, long-term mental repression, resulting in her current appearance.

"Do you?" I repeated, hoping for a quick answer. The girl glanced at me, tears streaming down her face, and began to nod vigorously. My tense emotions instantly relaxed, and the hand squeezing her mouth gradually loosened its grip.

She trembled, glancing repeatedly at the dilapidated bicycle. Seeing her worry for the contents of the styrofoam box, I reached out my right arm and straightened the bike, which was leaning against the tree trunk. Then I looked into the girl's eyes again.

"Do not break the ice, do not tear up clothes, do not hit me, I submit to you," the girl stammered, barely catching her breath. The white styrofoam box was filled with ice. She mistook me for a robber, begging me not to damage her goods, not to hit her. She was willing to submit to rape, but not to tear her clothes.

Her childish, ashen face was glistening with tears. The girl's mouth was large, as if her lips were stretched high by a row of protruding teeth when her face was relaxed, unable to close naturally. Her body was thin and frail, her chest development far below that of a normal man's.

Faced with what she was experiencing, the girl uttered such words. A weakling, so helpless that she resorted to extreme compromise to protect herself. Despite her young age, she already understood that satisfying one's own kind could lead to physical abuse. Seeing the sharp dagger on my shoulder, she thought of the possibility of her neck being slit afterward.

Humans are the creators of tragedy, first testing the waters with other species, using acquired skill to masquerade as increased understanding, and finally instigating tragedy among their own kind, far exceeding the harm caused to society by the mentally ill, yet they are revered. Greed, avarice, and cruelty are the most terrifying forms of mental illness in the world.

How many instances of abuse must an underage girl have endured to react like this in her first reaction? Her words filled me with inexplicable shame. It seems this area is not peaceful; perhaps Du Mo has provoked a group of local thugs who have crossed the line of humanity.

I took a deep breath, forced a smile, and offered the girl a faint smile, hoping to rouse her from her slumber so she could answer my questions. “Our boat ran aground and capsized at the southern tip of the island. My friend and I had to swim ashore to survive. Have you seen a fat, dark-skinned guy? Hmm…” I thought for a moment, recalling Dumo’s most striking feature. “Oh, his teeth were very white.”

The girl, who was sobbing, suddenly chuckled, a grape-sized, clear snot bubble popping out from under her flat nose. She was still a child and didn’t realize how embarrassing this was. She simply raised her right hand, without looking, and wiped the snot sticking to her lips. Then she turned her hand behind her back and rubbed it on her lower back to disperse the sticky snot.

“Ha…” The girl took a deep breath, sniffed her red nose, and like a little turtle flipping its shell, she used her back to push against a thick pine tree to stand up. She walked to the old bicycle, stretched out her withered, thin hand, and gently shook the styrofoam box twice. Finding it still sturdy, she burst into laughter again.

“I saw your fat black friend this morning when I went to the factory to get ice. He was being beaten badly by a group of people.” The girl’s words filled me with both joy and alarm. I was happy to have found Dumo’s whereabouts, but also worried that he had been harmed.

“Hehe, my friend must have been starving and looking for food. He can’t speak English, so he was mistaken for a thief and got beaten up.” Although I was anxious inside, I pretended to be nonchalant.

The girl blinked her narrow eyes twice and said in great surprise, “No, no, no, you’re wrong. You’d better not go looking for your friend. That place is terrifying. It’s called the ‘Ghost Factory.’ Even the locals are afraid to go there. Anyone who enters without an invitation will never come out. The sewage outlet behind the factory often flows out corpses chopped up by chainsaws.”

The first part sounded reasonable, but the girl’s last words were unbelievable. “Oh, doesn’t the local government intervene in this factory? The locals must feel very insecure. How did you get in to work here?” I patted my pockets, looking for a small, amusing gift to bribe the bewildered girl and get her to reveal more crucial information.

“The nearby residents were the first pioneers to arrive, renting cars and leaving their houses behind. They wanted to use the seven-colored soil on the hills to grow sugarcane, tea, tobacco, onions, and fruit, enough to support their families and sell the surplus in the city to earn some rupees. Soon after, they raised cattle, sheep, pigs, deer, and chickens, ensuring every family had meat and eggs. I remember when I was little, we could even eat seafood caught by fishermen. But now…”

The girl’s expression was filled with longing for the past; her sadness was genuine. Her tranquil life had been shattered; she had fallen from a comfortable existence, regressing to the status of a serf, branded with the mark of freedom.

Therefore, she had the right to be sad, but deep within this girl’s soul lay an optimistic spirit; she firmly believed that the life she longed for would return.

From her, I saw a spirit of national unity. From the desolate Bat Island, through long periods of colonization by several European countries, the painful history has shaped the indomitable spirit of the Mauritian people.

"That 'Yanluo Factory' must be a tax tycoon, while you small-scale residents can only hand over some primary agricultural products each month. Therefore, the level of attention and protection you receive is far behind that of the enterprise. Is that right?"

A few brief words quickly drew me closer to the girl. Now, she had completely lost her earlier timidity and, like a hostess, opened up to me.

"Anyway, you'd better not go to that factory. They want us to help deliver ice, paying us one rupee a day. If we make a mistake, they won't just deduct one day's pay; every employee will get beaten, especially the girls, and..."

She paused abruptly, and I understood what she meant. Some of the factory's lackeys were abusing their "maintaining order" label to rape women.

"Your friend is tough. He knocked seven or eight strong men to the ground with just a few kicks and punches, and they couldn't get up for a long time. Then one guy pulled out a pistol, and he surrendered."

As the girl spoke, she struggled to lift her bicycle, preparing to return to her delivery route. There was an invisible force about her as she spoke these words, which also intimidated her.

"Hey! Little girl, when I get some rupees, I'll give you some. Our boat ran aground, and I'll reward you when I retrieve our cargo. But you have to keep our secret today. Don't mention it to anyone. Okay?"

I said, smiling broadly as I leaned over and helped her adjust her old bicycle. "Okay, if you can give me a hundred rupees, I'll be grateful for the rest of my life." With that, she bent over, strained to push her bicycle, and ran forward, trying to catch up on the time she'd lost.

"There's a really tough guy at the factory, he can kick a cow's belly open with one kick, you absolutely mustn't go to the factory..." The voice faded into the distance, and the girl quickly returned to the mountain path.

Chapter 212: Climbing into the Drug Den

Watching the girl's slender figure disappear into the verdant hilltop, I remained hidden in the woods, quickly running back to higher ground. Relying on my excellent field of vision, I surveyed the undulating hills on both sides of the riverbank.

Downstream, where the river flows into the sea, there was a patch of overgrown earthen walls, the surrounding terrain flat, but surrounded by high barbed wire, resembling prison walls. The silver-gray chemical tanks enclosed inside looked like eggs hatched by giant beasts in the grass. Each tank was the size of a small truck, supported by rusted, dark red iron frames, stretching as far as the eye could see.

This is an abandoned factory. The brick chimneys, thin and long, pierce the sky, their blackened tips resembling the lips of a breastfeeding mother, dripping with sticky white secretions. Even owls could sense the toxic fumes and dare not build their nests there. Judging

from the factory's size, it's clear that the capitalists, under the protection of local criminal elements and with the tacit approval of the local government, created maximum profits under the worst possible conditions. Obviously, this value conversion comes at the cost of environmental damage and harm to the health of nearby residents.

Destroying one generation for the happiness of millions—this kind of national scourge is the kind of immigrant that developed countries in Europe and America are most willing to accept. Which country would refuse someone who both helps them harm their competitors and brings in millions of dollars in foreign exchange?

I think the mastermind behind this abandoned factory is a scourge on the people of Mauritius. Even if he doesn't emigrate in the future, he can reinvest the value he created in environmental restoration and improved healthcare, at least earning the guise of a philanthropist. No matter how long this absurd process took, he wouldn't be in a hurry, because some people spent their time enjoying themselves, while others spent their time suffering.

For dozens of miles along both banks of the river, there wasn't another factory in sight; the gleaming black kodo beast, Dumo, must be imprisoned here. In the northeast corner, there was a lush, verdant palm grove. I used thirty seconds to analyze my strategy for descending the mountain, planning to approach from the middle to reach the rear of the factory.

I drew the dagger from my left chest, quickly chopped some soft green branches, wove them into a hat, and put it on my head. Looking up at the blinding sun, I realized it was getting late. Following the route I had planned, I jogged like the wind, and in just forty minutes, I approached the rear of the factory.

A wire fence over four meters high was tightly embraced by countless locust trees. Through these plants, it wasn't hard to see the factory boss's hostility towards the nearby residents. If any child, out of curiosity, tried to climb in to satisfy their curiosity, a fall could easily result in being blinded or having their ears torn off by the dense locust trees.

But now, I had to crawl in and get Dumo out; his safety was tied to the women on the pirate ship. I tore two strips of cloth from my clothes, wrapped them around my palms, and, taking advantage of the absence of anyone, like a gecko, gripped the fist-sized mesh with my index finger, darted up, and flipped over. My

heavy military boots landed on the overgrown factory floor, and my upper body immediately dropped to the ground. This movement had to be swift and concise, transforming me from a climbing gecko into a lizard.

Jason Jody was very demanding of me; even now, I still couldn't get my hands on a gun, and the more I thought about it, the angrier I became. If I still had the big ship, I could go into the armory and choose any weapon I wanted—just an AK-47 rifle and two pistols—I could easily stroll through the factory gate and kill any who fought back.

To an assassin, taking down a few thugs is a piece of cake, both physically and mentally. But I had to constantly remind myself that the ultimate goal of this mission wasn't to kill, but to save lives, to bring the women back to safety. Therefore, I had to keep a low profile to the extreme, avoid all unnecessary battles, and get straight to the point.

Five years ago, I thought I had escaped purgatory, but fate's dramatic twist made this deserted island my return to purgatory.

The factory floor was mostly paved with broken bricks and gravel. For them, as long as the ground wasn't too muddy after rain, anything that didn't affect profits was irrelevant. The weeds growing here, sheltered from the grazing of cattle, sheep, and rabbits, and untouched by sickles, were still corroded.

Like a wary lizard, I crept under the chemical tanks, picked up a thin wooden stick, and gently parted the half-yellow, half-green weeds, peering around to see if anyone's feet were moving.

The pungent, acidic, fishy smell stung my eyes and made my throat burn. The weeds on the ground were a stark contrast to those growing on the hills; no wonder this place was called the "Grim Reaper Factory." If even plants that could only breathe but couldn't groan were like this, what about living beings?

After climbing for about ten minutes, I encountered a low wall made of red bricks. The wall wasn't high, only about a meter and a half, but it blocked my path. Jumping over it would have been easy, but exposing myself would have been too risky. So I drew the sharp dagger from my left shoulder and, like a rabbit digging a burrow, dug a hole from the base of the wall. Like many wild rabbits, I couldn't bite through bamboo fences, so I used this method to steal vegetables from inside.

After digging for thirty minutes, I finally dug a hole about the size of a gasoline can. Because of the thick weeds, I had to use a bamboo pole to clear the view and carefully observe the inside.

To the right was a water tank, half a meter above the ground, with a wide edge for drawing water. Two-thirds of the tank was covered by a thick cement slab to prevent fallen leaves and sand from entering and polluting it. At the top of a rotten, blackened wooden pole hung a broken nightlight. Due to years of neglect, the pole was slightly tilted, as if it were peering into the water.

Further away, there were seven or eight low-lying houses. The weather was unusually hot, and every window was wide open, its shattered panes replaced with greasy newspapers. The houses were beyond my hearing range, so to be cautious, I assumed someone was inside.

To my left, the brick floor was still covered with withered yellow weeds, as if sprayed with herbicide, half-dead and barely clinging to life. Now, under the scorching sun, they looked even more bleak and lifeless.

In the center of the factory grounds, a few large trees grew haphazardly, some distance from me. Although the factory was dilapidated, I learned from the ice cream girl that they were mostly malicious people. Judging from this, installing surveillance cameras or large animal traps to deliberately catch thieves wouldn't be a bad idea. Therefore, they might invest in such things.

This kind of permissive, deliberate harm, as long as someone turns a blind eye, will naturally be used as a form of entertainment. I have already experienced the wickedness of the human heart with my blood and life, and thus I have become more wary.

The sunlight was bright and fair, and its rays made me sweat profusely. It wasn't until noon, when I guessed those guys had started drinking and carousing, that I lifted my sweat-covered face and crawled towards the pool using my elbows.

Chapter 213: The Flesh Pool Under the Withered Lamppost

As I climbed to the vicinity of the pool, I suddenly heard a noisy commotion coming from the small house. Several men with rough voices, I don't know how they did it, but a scream like stepping on a dog's tail erupted from inside.

This noise was full of affected sweetness; when women are reduced to the lowest rung of society, becoming tools of desire, they always use similar tones to eke out a living.

The heat wave, like an invisible fire, rolled and burned on the ground. My soaked cheeks, buried in the grass, were particularly itchy from the scratches. I knew very well that the polluted air was corroding the pores of my face.

Approaching the pool, I pressed my back against the cracked cement wall, curling my body into its smallest possible shape. Fifty meters away, at a corner of a section of barbed wire, a small, dark wooden stick was twisted into place. I suspected it was an electronic eye, but without binoculars, I couldn't see clearly whether it was or not. I wanted to continue, but I was afraid of alerting them; I was conflicted.

I only had a dagger. Fighting these armed men from a distance was extremely dangerous. Bad guys always get lucky, but there's a price to pay; if they're unlucky, they'll lose their lives. I had a responsibility; I couldn't act rashly

. If they shot me, it would be the same as shooting all the women on the pirate ship. As I pondered my options, lewd laughter erupted from inside the house, highlighting the grotesque arrogance of those who were carried away. Amid the noise, I vaguely heard some French. Since Mauritius was merely a stepping stone for the mission, Dumo hadn't told me about the local customs; I didn't even know which languages were spoken there.

"Squeak, thud, clang..." A noticeable commotion came; someone opened the door and came out of the small house. Judging from the sound, the person was carrying what sounded like an enamel basin. Without thinking, I quickly got up and, like a snake, climbed onto the edge of the pool, extremely cautiously submerging myself in the water.

In those few seconds, my heart pounded so hard it felt like it would burst. A moment's hesitation would attract attention, and a shout would summon a horde of thugs. A hasty movement would splash water, wetting the dry, white edge of the pool, and could even invite ambush.

The icy water jolted my pores shut, causing me to shiver and quickly burrow under the concrete slab covering the pool. Again, I couldn't make too much of a splash.

Footsteps grew closer, and a scent of sweat and perfume seeped from the cracks in the stone slab covering the pool. My nose told me a woman was approaching; the intensity of her perfume strongly suggested her survival strategy: using her body as a weapon.

The area under the concrete slab was cool and damp, covered in cobwebs. The gap between the water and the slab was less than fifteen centimeters; I had to slightly lift my nose to breathe properly.

That dilapidated lamp, when turned on at night, must have attracted countless insects. Near the surface of the water where I breathed, a few strands of viscous green liquid swam, covered with and even bubbling with green foam.

Mole crickets, moths, and crickets, drowning from their greed for the midnight light, floated in layers, swollen and pale from being soaked, swaying with the ripples, utterly repulsive.

A small, pinkish-white foot, in red high heels, clicked twice onto the pool platform.

The sound, like raindrops, struck the man's heart, sketching a soft, decadent scene, as if a disheveled woman had gotten off the bed, only to return, all for the man's sake.

"Splash, splash..." The woman's skin, under the glaring sunlight, appeared exceptionally pale, even making my eyes, in the shadows, uncomfortable. A pair of arms, white as frost, swung the basin in her hands, splashing the water a few times to clear away the floating debris, then filled it halfway before stuffing it between her legs as she squatted.

Only then did I see clearly that her short yellow hot skirt, barely covering half her buttocks, clung tightly to her ample, slender waist like a swimming ring. The woman wasn't wearing a bra; perhaps she had been wearing one earlier, but it had been torn off by the men earlier.

"Splash, splash..." A pair of plump, white hands were washing her genitals. Those low-class scumbags were far less aware of the importance of washing before sex and using condoms, but this woman, because her body could no longer contain the men's desires, was washing them away.

I couldn't see the woman's face, but judging from her skin, she was young; from her actions, she was carefree and wanton. "Baby, don't wash too clean, I like the smell," finally, a man who spoke English shouted impatiently into the room in a lewd, high-pitched voice.

"Hehehe, Hitler often wrote to his lovers, telling them he'd arrive in three days and instructing them not to shower. What, you and that crazy guy have the same taste? Hahaha..."

Another man who spoke English chuckled as he teased the boastful one, instantly eliciting a burst of laughter. Judging from the laughter, I estimated there were about seven or eight men in the room.

"In my entire life, I've never admired anyone except one guy, Hitler! Long live the Nazis, long live the Nazis..." This guy must have drunk quite a bit, roaring maniacally as if he were about to grab a rifle and invade another country.

A bunch of lowly, ignorant lackeys, unsophisticated by the world, but within their narrow circle, they abused their power, displaying their tyranny to the extreme towards the weak and their playthings. Especially that barking man, if the Nazi iron hooves were to trample on him, who knows what kind of foolish behavior he would display.

Chapter 214: The Evil Little House

"Chirp, chirp..." Hearing the impatient shouts from inside, the woman quickened her washing pace. Her fingers were working hard, and from the sound, one could tell that there was a lot of filth inside.

This woman was unaware that her soul was still resisting the filth, although her brain had already secreted a thought that motivated her to idealize the misfortune of being under men as enjoyment, and to idealize those men as her tools.

But in reality, she washed for a long time. Deep down, she longed to be clean, but her noble limbs could only be used to cleanse filth. Therefore, this longing caused her contradiction and led to pain.

I still didn't see her face. She might be prettier than the ice cream girl; at least her body had already enjoyed perfume and sexy high heels.

Vanity is the cheapest tonic for the soul, distorting the inertia of humanity's pursuit of purity. It causes one to misjudge life's hardships as unique misfortunes, numbing the soul and making all filth appear not as filth, but as a holy war. No matter how filthy and stenchy the trenches, as long as there is something to rely on, like a wizard's incantation, even an aggressor will decisively shoot down the life on the other side.

The woman washing herself understands that she is being enjoyed by life, so she exposes her most private parts to obtain passive satisfaction. The process of human weakness is extremely smooth, building stepping stones for depravity, inevitably bearing guilt. Therefore, subconsciously, she fantasizes about this behavior as climbing, feeling no guilt, until she smashes her own foot.

Once a person lives in self-deception, they are like a hungry beggar frantically rummaging through a garbage heap, forgetting the value of their hands. Forgetting this value, the rules will naturally be broken.

The universe has invisible laws, or rather, God's prohibitions. Those who violate this principle are arrogant and self-important, betraying justice and even resorting to despicable and unscrupulous means to interpret the true meaning of natural selection.

Therefore, they fail to realize that their spirit and soul, like an inflated balloon, are about to burst and be destroyed, with punishment following closely behind.

The pool wasn't very deep; I couldn't be like a swamp crocodile, lurking in front of the naked woman, grabbing her by the neck and dragging her to the bottom. Her piercing, wanton screams would likely attract countless armed thugs before I even surfaced.

This alluring woman changed the water three times, washing herself for about five minutes, before wiggling her plump buttocks back and forth a few times. I thought she was going to leave, but she didn't. The woman half-squatted up, clumsily taking two steps, her slender, high heels striking the hard cement again with two "tap-tap" sounds.

A dazzlingly white buttocks, like a cannon on a city wall, ready to fire at the sun. She uses the abundant sunshine of nature to dry the damp downy fur, or uses ultraviolet rays to kill the bacteria in the thick crevices.

The damp, dark environment beneath the cement slab not only fattened the insects' bodies but also emboldened them. Five or six black-bellied spiders scurried up my head along the dense spiderweb above my head, rushing towards my ears as if they looked down on me as flies, biting and nibbling at me wantonly.

Behind my ears, my healthy skin began to react, breaking out in a patch of red bumps, unbearably itchy. Their teeth chattered in my cheeks, but I had to endure it, waiting for the woman drying her backside to finish.

"Damn it, did you fall into the pool and drown? My thing's about to burst, get over here right now!" A sharp shout startled the woman, making her backside tremble. She quickly straightened up and ran towards the small house. "Tap tap tap tap..." Gao Gen'er's voice, growing louder as it faded into the distance, once again struck a chord in the man's heart.

"What's the rush! They've worked so hard all this time, all for you. You guys are always messing with them, they can't even leave for a moment, you're a bunch of devils!" the woman complained, her voice dripping with sultry sarcasm, trying to appease these scoundrels while simultaneously boasting and highlighting her own worth.

"Hahaha, we are devils! Anyone who disagrees will be killed. Come on, come on, lie down here, I'll give you a free check, see if you're clean enough. Hahahaha..." Another burst of arrogant, ignorant laughter echoed from the dilapidated little house.

Hearing the lewd noise, I knew I was safe; those guys' attention was locked on the lewd music inside the little house. I quickly swam out from under the cement slab and climbed up the stone platform where the woman was squatting to wash.

The sun was still scorching, the air seemed to melt, its flow slow and stagnant, the woman's perfume lingering like tiny insects in amber. The dry, hot cement platform burned my palms; the filth washed from beneath the woman, like eggs on a frying pan, pooled and formed white spots.

Along the base of the pool, I crouched down and approached the back of the small house, trying to glean information about the enemy through the back window. This dark, damp path was piled high with garbage discarded from inside. Used disposable chopsticks lay like a scene from a massacre, and spilled leftovers rotted into a gruesome mix of green, red, black, and white scum, their colors grotesque and jarring. A few sanitary napkins of varying freshness were scattered about, resembling bloodshot eyes glaring angrily on the garbage heap.

"Push harder! Push my ass harder!" a thug roared, panting heavily, as if he wanted to be a plow to rip open the woman beneath him. I endured the stench and continued to probe with my ears. "

Heh heh heh, I told you you're no match for me. This time you'll lose the bet again. If you can't handle it, get off. Why force yourself? No matter how hard I push, your thing is useless; it's all for nothing." This group of thugs used women as a gambling tool, competing in prostate endurance. The man who had just finished his lewd and boastful words was immediately met with a barrage of insults.

"No shit!" The man, his voice rough as he lifted the woman's thigh, forced out a curse to silence his sarcastic gambling opponent, but the curse told everyone who heard it that he was about to reach his limit.

The woman giggled obsequiously, watching the two men bicker as if it were a show. The man on top of her moved roughly, yet he didn't make the woman's Adam's apple bob or let out a trembling moan.

There were four men and two women in the room. Based on their voices, I roughly estimated their locations. Having gathered the information, I quietly slipped back to the right side of the small house.

The empty factory grounds, withered yellow weeds and chemical tanks sweltering in the heat, meant that most of the other factory workers were unwilling to venture out at this time. Seeing that the time was ripe, I darted towards the bustling little house.

The door was open, and like an accomplice of a villain, I slipped inside, then closed the door behind me, my movements light and swift. "Ah, ahh, I'm going to cum..." The thug on top of the woman shouted and vented as if he had ascended to heaven.

I suddenly lunged forward, grabbed him by the back of the neck, and threw him off the woman with her legs spread wide. The woman lying on the wooden bed had her pupils dilate instantly, about to let out a piercing scream, when I pressed my hand to her mouth.

Chapter 215: The Villain's Last Drinking Table

"Bang, crash..." One of the thugs behind me grabbed a beer bottle and smashed the bottom off, using the sharp glass shards as a substitute for a dagger. This is a typical thug's fighting move; the sound of breaking the bottle bottom can intimidate the opponent, showing that one's palms are not afraid of being pierced or bleeding. For ordinary people, as long as they are not afraid of bleeding, they can be extremely vicious.

These thugs were unaware that they were in danger, facing a fierce warrior, a killing machine that had escaped from the battlefield of flesh and blood. They used to bully the defenseless and kind-hearted, which fostered an arrogant personality but not real skills.

Danger, seemingly unexpected, is often provoked. Arrogance, contempt for justice, and disregard for justice ultimately lead to one's demise.

"If you dare scream, I'll cut your throat," I said coldly to the naked woman, expressionless. She nodded, bewildered, muttering, understanding how to ensure her safety.

Releasing the woman's mouth, I slowly turned around. The man thrown to the ground, in the throes of orgasm, was now filled with terror, dazed for a long time before recovering. "Hey! A black devil in the morning, and now another clueless bastard," he muttered, rubbing his neck as he helped himself to his seat from the messy table.

I've heard many curses, but this one felt utterly meaningless. I've experienced life and death far more than soldiers who have fought on the battlefield; perhaps no one understands life and death better than me.

The gruff man slowly sat down at the table, poured himself a drink, and as the alcohol went down, his senses gradually returned. He picked up his fork and took a bite of beef.

He ate faster and drank more heavily, his breath coming in gasps like a bull about to charge. Finally, he roared, "Kneel down! You stupid thing, when I was with a woman, you dared to be rough with me! Now crawl over here and beg for mercy, and I'll make sure you die a more comfortable death!"

Hearing his words, I frowned slightly, feeling rather helpless, as if I were already bound hand and foot, in their hands, forced to satisfy the murderer's urges before dying.

"Where's that black man locked up?" I asked calmly, a stark contrast to his fiery temper.

"Oh? Oh hahaha, oh hahaha..." The four men exchanged glances after hearing my words, then suddenly burst into unrestrained laughter. "Your hands are bleeding a lot, people will feel sorry for you. I'll get you some medicine."

The woman, silenced by the shout, thought the situation was settled, a four-on-one victory was assured. So, she simply tucked her bare legs together, rolled off the wooden bed, and ran towards the door, saying this as she went.

"Crack." The naked woman, her body covered in white flesh, her trembling figure barely moved past me before I caught a glimpse of her out of the corner of my eye. My left hand lashed out, striking the woman on the back of the neck. She didn't utter a sound before collapsing under the table, her two snow-white thighs once again spread wide in a "V" shape.

The scene that came into view was ironic; the large pool seemed to have been prepared specifically for her.

The thug clutching the beer bottle had hawk-like eyes, a narrow, thin face with a large, oily forehead. This cunning face still glared fiercely, blood crawling like tapeworms from the back of his bulging, veiny hands.

"Hey! Not bad at beating women, but that black guy's even better, and look what happened—he's still hanging on the warehouse door drying his grease. Humph, you bastard." With that, the rude man downed another shot of strong liquor and began eating beef with an air of importance.

Since becoming a hitman, I've hated dealing with these kinds of thugs; their nonsense far outweighs their attacks. This rude thug had a naturally menacing appearance; his face was full of fat, greasy, and beneath his small eyes was a thick nose. His purplish-black upper lip twitched constantly with each chew, as if trying to block the air in his nostrils.

I didn't know how long these thugs had been eating here, but one thing was certain: their food and women were definitely not obtained through legitimate labor. Yet, in the corrupt factory environment, this behavior garnered more envy than genuine contempt.

Behind the hawk-eyed thug was a small wooden bed. A disheveled young girl was curled up on it, naked and covered in bruises, especially her inner thighs, which were bruised and bloodied from being twisted. Dried tear stains were frozen on her pale, contorted face, and a white, sticky liquid kept flowing from her buttocks. From her dazed expression, I knew she had been raped multiple times.

Looking at the woman, my calm heart stirred with anger. The dagger on my left shoulder rested silently against my chin, as if it too sensed its owner's murderous intent, ready to strike at any moment.

The other two thugs, realizing their drinking and eating companions were playing mind games and trying to distract me, began to stealthily move closer to the bed, intending to reach for their hidden weapons.

I shook my head in disappointment, then suddenly leaped onto the messy table. The men eating and drinking were startled and recoiled, their outstretched arms like ducks struggling to spread their wings, shaking off the mud and water from their feathers.

Using the wooden table as a second springboard, I leaped again, trying to soar as high as possible. My right leg, raised high in the air, resembled a powerful hammer, and I brought it down, striking one of the thugs on the head. Blood gushed from his bald head, thick blood spreading across his grotesque features like watering a field. The

moment my right foot, having shattered the bald head, landed, my right fist lashed out. The thug beside me, who had just drawn his shotgun but hadn't even had time to aim it at me, was struck hard in the temple.

A bloodshot eyeball was blasted out by the angry fist, like a baby octopus just born, covered in green tentacles, crawling on the ground, filthy and bloodied.

Both men collapsed to the ground, without even a chance to cry out. I knew my own destructive power; before I struck, I had anticipated they would be beaten to this extent. If I beat them until they screamed and howled, attracting accomplices, I might really end up joining Du Mo in the afterlife.

Outside the window of the small house, the withered yellow grass and chemical tanks still stood listlessly, half-dead, in the sunlight.

The hawk-eyed man clutching the beer bottle, seeing my center of gravity lower slightly as I punched, suddenly thrust a shard of glass at the right side of my neck. I quickly dodged his attack, my left hand seizing his wrist holding the bottle, my right fist clenching and thrusting vertically upwards.

"Crack!" His elbow snapped at ninety degrees, ligaments and bones shattering. Before he could even let out a scream, my right elbow strike, like lightning, slammed into his jaw. "Crack, crunch." His face twisted, his spine snapped, and he slumped onto the two corpses.

I turned around, slowly walked to the table, and sat down, my gaze softening as I looked at the last thug.

He stared in disbelief, like a stiff corpse dead from shock.

Chapter 216: The Steel Fork That Pried Open His Mouth

"Don't panic, let's talk while we eat." With that, I picked up a brand-new pair of chopsticks, took a piece of tender, juicy roasted meat from the crooked white porcelain plate, and slowly chewed it.

My hungry stomach instantly stirred, like a starving beast at the bottom of a dry well, knowing food was about to be thrown down, stretching out its body in anticipation.

"Give me the teapot, I haven't had any fresh water all day, I'm terribly thirsty." With that, I straightened my neck and slowly swallowed the chewed beef. This rude, thuggish man was completely different from his earlier arrogance. He hesitated, timidly stretching out his arms, his hands trembling, to grab the clay teapot beside him.

He was terrified, because the lid of the teapot rattled loudly from the shaking.

"Take your hands out from under the table, lay your arms flat on the surface, palms open, fingers spread." After giving the order, I tilted my head back, aimed at the teapot's slender spout, and gulped it down.

The refreshing tea, cooling me down, flowed through my body, a soothing and pleasant sensation spreading instantly, leaving me feeling comfortable from head to toe. Mauritius's mild climate produces tea with a delightful aroma, truly living up to its reputation.

The trembling man, seemingly rude, was actually quite clever; he realized I was very perceptive out of the corner of his eye, which is why he didn't dare to take advantage of the situation. On the messy table, a steel fork lay askew. I picked it up, held it up in front of me, directly comparing it to the thug's torso, and said casually...

“Relax. As long as you don’t resist, you can live. I’ll ask you questions, and if I think you’re lying, I’ll fill both your palms with pitchforks. If you scream in pain, the dagger on my shoulder will slit your throat immediately.”

The thug, his face full of scars, was so terrified his eyes almost popped out. Hearing me say this, he nodded eagerly, his obedient expression as if begging for God’s mercy and forgiveness for his past sins.

Evil people always realize something important only when they’ve driven themselves to the brink. Good humanity is the only reliable faith that doesn’t betray one

’s intelligence. “When you captured that black man? Who was he with? What were they saying? What were they doing? Did you seize any documents or items?” The thug’s eyes darted around as he racked his brains for answers. He tried hard to remember, beads of sweat, whether from fear or mental strain, streaming down his forehead and shattering on the table.

“villains, I-kill-you!” The woman curled up on the wooden bed suddenly picked up the hunting rifle on the ground and walked angrily toward the burly man. Her English was difficult to pronounce; I think she was trying to communicate with me.

“No-no-no-no, shh!” I quickly shook my head and raised an arm to signal the sobbing girl to calm down. She didn’t know that the hunting rifle was very noisy, and firing it would be asking for trouble.

“I have something very important to ask him. Three villains are already dead; you should calm down. If he’s not lying to me, I promise to let him live. Also, I’ll take you away from here in a bit.”

As I spoke, I pulled the naked girl into my arms, gently patted her shoulder, and offered some comfort with my strong chest and arms.

The girl seemed to be in great pain the moment she released the rifle. She covered her face with her hands, squatted on the ground, and sobbed silently. She cried hard, but couldn’t make a sound.

The burly man sitting at the table had a half-smile on his face; he was more pleased to hear the news of his life than to feel embarrassed. I inserted the shotgun barrel into the hole in the iron bench, gave it a sharp turn, and then let it fall freely to the ground.

"A toy," I said, taking another large bite of beef. At the same time, I tossed a few slices of beef to the sobbing girl, telling her to eat something quickly so she could run with me later.

"Go on, tell me everything," I said, sitting back down and continuing to chew beef while sipping my tea. Beef is rich in whey protein, which promotes muscle growth. I'd expended a great deal of energy these past few days, and now I was exhausted and hungry. Interrogating the thug while replenishing my energy with satisfying food was the perfect way to put me in a good mood.

The thug calmed down considerably and began to actively and proactively recount the situation. "Before dawn, I was patrolling with a few factory guards when we saw two men talking furtively under the moonlight. I notified the other brothers to surround them, hoping to trap them against the iron fence. However, they were very alert. As soon as they spotted us, the black man pushed the other one onto the fence and fought with us to cover his companion's escape."

"Oh?" I interrupted the burly man's story, asking an extra question. "How skilled was the black man?" The thug was puzzled by my question, so I quickly explained. "You're not allowed to flatter him, give a truthful evaluation."

The thug's brows furrowed, unsure how to answer. "If you want to live, tell the truth. Don't deliberately exaggerate the black man's abilities, and don't deliberately belittle him."

After this explanation, the thug immediately understood the point and knew how to answer. "The black man's attacks were lightning-fast and ruthless. Of the ten of us, each as fierce as a tiger, he killed two and seriously wounded five. Later, the commotion alerted other factory guards, who, carrying hunting rifles, forced the black man to surrender."

He paused, and I was suddenly alarmed. Based on this description, Du Mo was also an assassin, and a highly skilled one at that. (This book is reprinted from 16k Literature Network 16k.cn)

“Go on,” I said, feigning satisfaction as I continued eating and drinking. “The black man had no documents or drafts, only two rifles, a few bullets, and a glass.

The thug let slip that the glass he was referring to was actually a telescope—a term often used by the Allied forces invading Vietnam and the Khmer Rouge. The special forces stationed in Saigon especially liked this comical name. The

fact that this guy used such a term suggests that the factory has retired soldiers or spies operating there, colluding with a secret organization in the Southeast Asian theater. Murder—the authorities are best at covering their tracks with this.

However, my biggest fear is encountering a formidable enemy here, or exposing my own identity. The sinister name 'The Factory of Hell' seems like a code name, hinting at a deeper network of relationships.

The black man was tied to a gas cylinder in the southeast corner of the factory. Selmo said his thick layer of fat made him look disgusting, so he ordered us to let him bake alive until he became jerky.”

"Saelmo? What kind of person is he? How strong is he? What are his responsibilities?" My questioning made the burly thug's face turn red and white, as if he was terrified of this man called Saelmo.

"Just tell me. As long as I rescue the black man, you can lie here and play dead, or cause some minor injuries. I guarantee no one will hold you responsible for leaking information. Once we're far away, you can continue your life of drinking and feasting."

I reassured the thug, but inwardly I was suspicious. "Saelmo is the head of our factory guards, responsible for watching over this place. He's a strange guy; he likes to cut raw meat from live animals and eat it, especially venison." I asked impatiently. "I asked you how strong he is in combat? Is he stronger than a black man?"

The thug trembled in fear, like a turtle, his neck twitching a few times before he stammered, still shaken, "He, he... I knocked him down with one punch."

Chapter 217: The Severed Throat on the White Porcelain Plate

"You lie! He is a devil, extremely dangerous." The sobbing girl suddenly became agitated, interrupting the rude thug. I frowned, pondering the girl's words.

"No, don't listen to her nonsense, I absolutely didn't lead you into a trap." The thug said urgently, forcing a smile at me; his fleshy face was extremely ugly. I devoured the beef on the table as quickly as possible.

"Here, have some tea too. If you're tied up later, it might be a long time before someone rescues you." Saying this, he handed me the teapot with water residue. The rude thug's eyes lit up immediately. He readily accepted the bottle and tilted his head back to drink it down, as if to prove he didn't mind my saliva, thus increasing his chances of survival.

The spout, like a seductive woman's nipple, made a sizzling sound as he drank from it, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down under his neck. I watched silently, then suddenly my right hand slashed across my left shoulder. "Whoosh!" A sharp dagger, like a scorpion's tail, swept out like lightning, instantly revealing a deep cut on the thug's fat, short neck. The gushing blood, initially like a red coil, then burst forth, spraying onto the empty white porcelain plate on the table.

My large head, like a thousand-pound weight, dragged the thug's upper body onto the table. He convulsed violently, blood pooling into a stream, flowing down the sloping surface of the table and rolling onto the damp floor.

"You have taken the fat of God's people, and you will pay with your blood. Cleanse your soul, let it ascend to heaven, and kiss God's justice and mercy," I prayed coldly.

"Cough, cough, cough..." The rude thug's neck was mostly severed. He tried to pull his hand away to stop the bleeding by covering his severed throat, but his body was like a malfunctioning machine; the instructions his nerves received only made his muscles tremble more violently. The

polluted air in the factory, like bacteria swarming out, poured in swarms from the severed trachea. The dying man seemed to understand my words; his rapid breathing gradually weakened, and his wide eyes slowly closed.

The girl was frightened again, but she quickly covered her mouth, and her scream turned into an empty sound, like a sudden exhale, giving only a rapid feeling, without any harsh noise.

The blood-stained dagger was wiped on the rude thug's thick back and returned to its left shoulder position. Even if the girl hadn't exposed me, I could tell that this kind of petty trickery by street thugs was utterly beneath contempt compared to the transcontinental spies I'd once apprehended and interrogated.

I kicked aside the four corpses, stripped the smallest one of her clothes, and tossed it to the naked, battered girl. She had delicate features, strikingly beautiful red lips and white teeth; her facial contours and body color suggested a mix of Caucasian and Asian features.

"Take off a pair of the most suitable boots and tighten them securely," I instructed the raped girl while binding the unconscious, seductive woman. After

rescuing Dumo, we had to escape along the hills, and the factory grounds, overgrown with weeds, were littered with scraps of crude oil-stained wire and triangular pieces of tin. If the girl injured her foot and couldn't walk, it would only cause more trouble.

The girl was a local; she had been abducted by several thugs while working as a tobacco farmer in the hills and forced into prostitution at the factory. Her parents were old and frail, knowing their daughter was there but powerless to help. However, the girl did not give up, nor did she succumb to tyranny and become a slave. She firmly believed that her soul was covered in pure white feathers. Therefore, I could help her escape the clutches of evil.

The demon, Sel, was not as weak as the thug had described, like an old man. The ice-selling girl had mentioned a terrifying figure in the factory who could kick a buffalo's belly open with a single kick; this must be the man in question. The

girl before me, who looked to be about twenty-three or twenty-four, solemnly advised me not to provoke the demon. She told me many stories based on local rumors.

Beneath the abandoned factory, there was another factory, which even the factory workers were not allowed to enter. They dominated the area, colluding with officials and businessmen. To further expand their power, they even spent money to hire underground mercenaries from Southeast Asia to act as thugs and train the factory workers.

I knew underground mercenaries well. Ordinary mercenaries were like mistresses secretly kept by the government, while underground mercenaries were like prostitutes. They were similar in nature, both tools of killing, yet they were essentially the same, like the pot calling the kettle black.

The ridicule and poor treatment distorted their psyches, creating immense competitive pressure. This resulted in a ruthless and vicious nature, becoming the hallmark of the underground mercenary group.

Southeast Asia is rainy year-round, with vast jungle landscapes and a monotonous climate. After the Vietnam War, many survivors scattered to neighboring countries to infiltrate. The victorious governments, seemingly discarding their soldiers after their usefulness was over, provided each soldier with a meager stipend barely enough to buy a few pairs of cheap boots.

Disheartened and driven by poverty, these soldiers eventually turned to assassins, seeking to accumulate wealth and erase the shame of being used cheaply. This profession of assassination flourished in countries like Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, and Vietnam.

The war of aggression ultimately inflicted the greatest psychological damage on soldiers on both sides, as they witnessed firsthand the brutality of the battlefield. Initially, the fervor was palpable, fueled by a hollow belief that the march of 30 million soldiers to foreign soil was exhilarating, that killing and being killed in this manner was noble, that they were pursuing justice and sowing the seeds of freedom.

In reality, as the fighting gradually turned into carnage, and eventually into massacre, the targets expanded from the able-bodied to the elderly, women, and children. Only then did they realize they had been seduced into the anus of the world.

Every soldier feared death; they stormed into every village, every yard, every car, every fishing boat, only to be met with sniper fire and explosive canisters. Witnessing their comrades being blown to pieces every day naturally made them extremely sensitive. When

fear swelled to a certain point, they couldn't withstand the slightest disturbance, and ultimately, they sought a sense of security only through frenzied shooting. Even a child would evoke intense hatred, a neurotic belief that the child's father, uncle, or other relatives might be part of the conflict. "Those cowards, why are they hiding? Why won't I shoot you? Fine, I'll kill these little beasts!"

The absurdity didn't stop there. Some women and children, due to hunger, were even suspected of having eaten a bellyful of grenades and might come at any moment to retaliate. When these targets were shot and killed, they shouted, "Murderer, idiot, ungrateful pig, I will avenge my dead brothers."

This environment severely ravaged and distorted humanity, driving gunmen to madness, willing to kill a hundred or a thousand innocent people just to increase their own chances of survival by a tiny margin, even if that increase was zero.

Every soldier who survived the battlefield would likely suffer lifelong regret; the guilt tormented them like suffocation, forcing them to envy those who died in battle.

Chapter 218: The Rumors Beneath Cat Ba Island

. Ultimately, this was a case of human self-harm; from this perspective, victory or defeat was irrelevant. The heavy price, for a few political clowns, was undoubtedly: "See, this won't work."

And the political clowns' reply: "Oh! I also had a feeling it wouldn't work, and after trying it, it certainly didn't."

First, shoot you, then bandage you—that's the humanitarianism of political clowns. The people of many countries have lost their instinct for independent thought, so even this low-level, hypocritical facade has actually worked. "

Imagine sitting in a magnificent command center, yet feeling as vulnerable as someone crouching in a trench, their head shattered and limbs blown off at any moment, their wives and children joining the civilians in the war zone.

I think many historical decisions regarding wars of aggression would change. It's simple: the biggest victims of war are always ordinary people; countless unimaginable factors can cause them to die mysteriously and inexplicably.

But who cares when the people of a nation can be manipulated like matchsticks!

'Saelmo' isn't a person's name; it's a code name for underground mercenaries, like the highest rank in judo, but not the highest rank in any martial art.

No one knows the true coordinates of the Saelmo base in Southeast Asia. Flowing through Vietnam..." At the mouth of the Red River within the territory lies Haiphong Port in Vietnam, near which is Cat Ba Island. Rumor has it that an abandoned factory once stood there, and the Seermo base was once stationed there.

Assassins from various regions, like products, also have their own brands. The Seermo organization doesn't accept ordinary people; many self-righteous criminals, villains, and thugs want to join but have no way to do so.

Seermo's greatest characteristic lies in its rigorous breeding process; they only seek out complete warriors emerging from the anus of the world. Therefore, the underground mercenaries they cultivate are all strong and ruthless, possessing rich experience in battlefield combat.

The Seermo brand ranks relatively high internationally. They are inexpensive, willing to risk their lives, and skilled in brutal hand-to-hand combat. Most importantly, they value completing their mission more than their own lives. It's also heavy. Therefore, it's highly favored by buyers in Europe and America. Some assassins, once they lose their weapons, are left only to be chased and beaten.

Dumo was no ordinary pirate; he wouldn't easily fall to a few crude hunting rifles. He must have encountered a formidable foe. The girl put on the villain's clothes; although loose and baggy, they hugged her soft body. Her riding boots, like skis, were on her feet.

This spirited girl winked at me affectionately; her bright blue eyes sparkled, appearing extremely obedient. I told her to crawl under that low wall, hide in the bushes in the northwest corner of the factory, and escape from there when I brought the black man back.

I put on a factory worker's uniform, covered my head with a wet towel, and... I covered my face and walked towards the southeast corner where Dumo was bound. The dry grass rustled against my knees, and rows of silver-gray chemical tanks were peeling and crumbling

under the sun. After walking for more than ten minutes, I finally saw a chubby, dark-skinned man, bound face-up to a metal tank, belly up. His once-intact skin, exposed to the scorching sun until nightfall, would be like having a layer of skin peeled off with boiling water.

As I got closer, I tensed up. I cautiously approached, circled the chemical tank twice, and only when I was sure no one was around did I pretend to be curious and approach. Dumo's lips were dry and white, his features swollen, covered in wounds, and layers of dried, congealed blood. At first glance, his face was covered in pustules, like he had been infected with a biochemical virus, and he looked like he had been dead for an hour or two.

"Dumo, don't move, I'll get you down soon," I said, while keeping a watchful eye on my surroundings. That mercenary, the Sael Demon, had obtained the weapon I needed for the first step of my mission. If the enemy knew Dumo had a companion, they would likely lie in ambush, sniping from the shadows.

All around were densely packed iron frames supporting egg-shaped metal tanks. The few large trees in the center of the factory seemed to be in the autumn foliage season, making it difficult for snipers to hide. I worried that snipers might be camouflaged in knee-high weeds. If my leg was broken by the enemy, the mercenaries would likely pounce and feast on my flesh—it wouldn't be a doubt.

These mercenaries had a custom: after killing an enemy, they would take a piece of flesh from the victim's body and eat it to show their strength, like a lion devouring a zebra; God wouldn't blame the killing in the food chain.

Seeing no one around, I quickly climbed onto the iron frame. The scorching hot chemical tanks were like a heated frying pan; they were so hot I dared not touch my buttocks. I had to squat on them, thankfully my military boots had thick soles.

Dumo was tied up in the morning; the skin on his back shouldn't have been badly burned. That mercenary, the Sael, treated Dumo like a prisoner of war deprived of his human rights, or like an animal. Clearly, this man not only killed,

but also enjoyed torturing people. I cut the ropes binding Dumo, gently lowered him to the ground, put another factory worker's uniform on him, and carried him by his thick, fat arms towards the small house. He was severely dehydrated and needed time to recover; otherwise, he wouldn't be able to climb over the barbed wire fence with me and escape back to the hilltop.

I dragged Dumo, pretending to be two drunk factory workers, through the middle of the factory until we reached the small house. Only then did I lay him down on the small bed, picked up the basin a woman had used to wash her bottom, and fetched water to wash Dumo.

The wet wounds quickly woke the unconscious Dumo from his stupor. His mouth was swollen high, and his cheekbones resembled black bread smeared with bright red jam. "Oh, these bastards..." He only got halfway through his sentence before quickly covering his cracked lip, panting heavily.

“Have you heard of the Saelmon mercenaries? I actually ran into one this time, and they were fucking terrifying and ruthless.” He mumbled, barely daring to open his mouth. “That guy wore an iron mask with lots of small holes, covered in strangely colored animal bristles. Especially his eyes, so ferocious.”

I handed Dumo some tea, letting him drink a little to moisten his throat and wait for his stomach to rumble before drinking more to quench his thirst. “You’re lucky you’re alive. If they weren’t so cruel, they would have shot you dead and gotten rid of you sooner, and I would have been left to collect your corpse.”

“Heh heh.” Dumo forced a smile, my words comforting him considerably. He felt fortunate; he knew that as long as he survived until nightfall, I would find him and get him out of the abandoned factory.

"Good riddance! Those bastards, seeing me get knocked down by the Sael Demon, they all swarmed around me and kicked me like mad dogs." Dumo's swollen eyes gleamed as he saw the corpse on the ground, continuing his vengeful rant. "I hate beating opponents who can't fight back. I originally wanted to come and kill them myself, but since my enemies are dead at your hands, I feel quite satisfied."

"Alright, they're all dead. There's nothing to hold a grudge about. Let's think about the mission Jason Jodi gave us." I deliberately reminded him, making him think about the two lost rifles.

Chapter 219: The Ruthless Sael Demon

"Hmm, that reminds me. The Sael Demon mercenaries stole two sniper rifles, twenty bullets, and a pair of binoculars from us." As Dumo said this, the playful expression on his swollen face quickly disappeared.

“Looks like we can’t just leave like this. I need to get you and that stranded girl out of here first, then come back for the weapons we need for the mission. Do you know the approximate location of those two sniper rifles?”

Dumo grinned as he thought, as if his whole body ached as he racked his brains. “I remember the mercenaries took them. There’s a gray-brown iron hut in the center of the factory, and it seems to lead to somewhere. Most likely, it’s the underground factory.”

“Let’s just kill that woman who’s tied up, to avoid any future trouble,” Dumo said viciously. I helped him up, we both put on towels, and carrying empty bottles, we headed towards the northeast corner of the factory. Hopefully, if someone saw us, they’d mistake us for two drunkards.

The wounded, shiny black kodo beast walked with a limp, clumsy gait. We trudged through the withered weeds, one step at a time, and he kept complaining about why we hadn't killed that short-skirted slut.

He was probably dazed from the beating, his hatred surging. Dumo, after all, was a seasoned pirate, and being beaten by a few thugs naturally enraged him. But I was puzzled as to why Dumo held a grudge against this woman.

"She didn't hit you, why do you hate her so much? If it weren't for her, those thugs would be having a good time with you." With that, I pushed Dumo out through the hole in the low wall and continued cautiously forward.

"Kamonya is dead. Her eyes were gouged out, and she was thrown into a hyena cage and torn to pieces. The informant was a woman who gathered tea leaves with Kamonya every day. I hate them." As he spoke, two streams of hot tears slid from Dumo's swollen eyes.

“Camilla knew nothing. She was just relaying a message. Those damned bastards!” Dumo spoke with increasing grief. Afraid he wouldn't be able to control himself, I quickly whispered words of comfort, urging him to remain calm, as there was a lot of dangerous trouble ahead.

Dumo had met with the second mission inheritor last night and learned of Camilla's murder. He said he hated them. Who were those people? Jason Jodi? Or the target of the mission?

It wasn't hard to see that he had deep feelings for Camilla; he wasn't a heartless pirate. However, what he had just said also pained me. Firstly, I felt sorry for the tea garden worker who had generously treated me, and secondly, I worried about Luya and the others on the Sea Demon.

The surrounding air felt like an invisible flame, enveloping my skin and causing extreme discomfort. The scars on Dumo's face, aggravated by this stimulation, made the capillaries beneath his skin stand out starkly, corroded by tears mixed with poisonous gas.

I dragged Dumo along and started jogging. Although this would make us easily spotted, we had to buy time. If he couldn't hold on and fainted from his heavy body, carrying him over the fence would be incredibly difficult.

"Dumo, stay alert. Try to climb over the fence. Look, that girl in distress. Let her take care of you and hide in the hilltop. I'll come find you as soon as I get my weapons."

Dumo's energy was waning rapidly, like a tire punctured by a nail. He seemed far weaker than he had been in the small house. I knew he was about to give up. The girl in distress ran over quickly to help me support Dumo.

"Clang, clang..." A sharp metallic clanging sound rang out to our right. I quickly turned my head, and the scene that met my eyes made me freeze for a moment.

Under the blinding sunlight, a burly man, shirtless, appeared. His chest and arms bulged with astonishing muscles, and beads of sweat clung to them, making his pale yellow skin gleam.

He wore an iron mask, his hair pulled back in a high ponytail. The mask, weathered and worn, looked as if it had been hammered over countless years, with countless tiny holes on the cheeks, each pierced with colorful animal bristles.

This bizarre attire exuded a solemn, austere, and intense aura of death, making it impossible for anyone who found it comical to laugh. Especially striking was the grotesque patch on his slightly exposed chin, covered in jagged lumps of flesh. I knew they weren't tumors; they looked like injuries from incendiary bombs, disfiguring his face.

I knew these kinds of men who had crawled out of the abyss of death well; most were dangerous, ruthless, hated life, and loathed every opponent. "Dumo, you and the girl quickly climb over the fence, I'll hold them off."

The girl in distress was terrified, even though she could hear the urgency in my calming tone, she stood frozen in place, her legs stiff. "Hey! Hurry up and climb over this damn chicken fence." Dumo grabbed the girl by the back of her neck, his other hand gripping her pants at the buttocks, like hanging something on a wall.

The girl regained consciousness, her fear turning into a survival instinct. She bit her lip and struggled to climb. Dumo ignored the excruciating pain from his wounds, climbing himself while also pulling the girl along.

"Clang, clang..." The mercenary, Selmo, was indeed terrifying. In his right hand, he held a gleaming, sharp broadsword, far more destructive than my ordinary broadsword. Poachers often used this tool to cut lion skins; if one's arm strength was sufficient, a single, powerful swing at a buffalo's neck would send a buffalo's head rolling to the ground in an instant. It's easy to imagine the consequences if this guy, with his strength, were to swing his broadsword at someone.

The broadsword scraped against the barbed wire, sparks flying. The mercenary, gritting his teeth and glaring with vicious red eyes, charged at us like a demon. He moved faster and faster, the rhythmic clatter of the broadsword against the wire mesh growing shorter and shorter.

"Clang, clang, clang..." This devilish mercenary finally erupted. Like a beast pouncing on its prey, he ran faster and faster along the base of the barbed wire fence, his shadow flashing across the wall like a speeding tram.

"Quick, Dumo, he's chasing you!" With my shout, the mercenary, a Sael, sprinted up the barbed wire fence. He gripped his long broadsword in his mouth, his limbs digging into the mesh, his muscular body dangling downwards like a giant spider on the wall, charging towards Dumo, who was trying to escape the factory.

My shouts couldn't stop the enemy's attack. I ripped off my stubborn factory worker uniform and dashed towards the barbed wire. If I couldn't stop this madman, Dumo's round head would be sliced off, rolling down into the withered grass or falling into the crown of a locust tree outside the fence.

Just as I was about to crash into the fence, I suddenly lifted my right leg, my toes landing on a higher mesh. With a snap, my hands hooked onto the mesh above my head, using the momentum to climb rapidly upwards. The fence shook violently, but it didn't stop me from adjusting my stance to meet the oncoming Sael mercenary.

I was like a gecko with its tail pointing upwards, waiting for its prey to pounce. His appearance was too sudden. This guy didn't use guns to kill us; instead, he chased after us with a broadsword, which showed his formidable strength. For him, dealing with us was just a thrilling killing game.

If I had a cell phone, I would have shot him without hesitation. Hand-to-hand combat with this kind of guy is too dangerous because they have long forgotten their own lives. However, Jason Jody was too cautious, restricting Dumo and me from accessing firearms, which led to all this trouble.

Now, I don't even have an ordinary broadsword. If I had gone to the bushes to pick up a sturdy iron rod to fight against the Selma mercenary's broadsword, not to mention Dumo's head, the stranded girl's limbs would probably have been chopped off as well.

The dagger on my left shoulder, issued on the small nuclear submarine, is exceptionally sharp, but it's at a great disadvantage against the Selma mercenary's broadsword. That guy's weapon is at least forty centimeters long, while my dagger, in pursuit of speed of drawing, is limited in length to less than twenty centimeters.

The iron fence rattled and creaked. The mercenary, a Sael, and I were like spiders caught in a web, locked in a fierce battle for the same insect. This guy, capable of scaling the iron fence at incredible speed, possessed astonishing gripping power and agility. It was

my first time fighting a Sael mercenary, and he could tell that Du Mo and I were no ordinary people. His refusal to bring a gun indicated his confidence; he believed he could kill us with just a broadsword. Judging from his ferocious aura, it wasn't hard to imagine that a considerable number of mercenaries had died at his hands.

"Close your eyes, and get going." In this extremely urgent moment, Du Mo ordered the girl to close her eyes. I didn't need to look to know that Du Mo had calculated the time. Knowing there wasn't enough time to quickly climb over, he grabbed the girl by the neck and threw her onto a tree branch outside.

He did the right thing. Once I drew my dagger and engaged the mercenary's broadsword in the first round, I couldn't subdue the ferocious beast. Meanwhile, Dumo and the girl, having just scaled the top of the iron fence, would have had their fingers and toes caught in the mesh instantly sliced off.

Imagine, with only half a foot remaining, how would they run up the hills to hide? Even following the trail of blood wouldn't have saved them from the pursuit. The ice cream girl had said that any stranger not allowed to enter would never come out alive.

"Ah!" the girl screamed, thrown against her will by Dumo into the canopy of the locust tree. Even if the splinters pricked her, it was better than having her knuckles chopped off. "Don't be afraid of the pain, grab the branches tightly, I'll jump over right away."

Dumo shouted, then landed with a thud in the lush locust tree canopy. "Ah, that fucking hurt! I didn't get pricked by any splinters. You circus monkey with the iron face, come and grab me, today is your death day. Hahaha... Oh!"

The arrogant laughter lasted less than two seconds before the crack at the corner of his mouth silenced Dumo. He deliberately screamed, intending to prompt me to switch from defensive to offensive mode; at the same time, he also wanted to provoke the fierce Sael mercenary so I could take advantage of the situation.

But I knew that, given Dumo's current physical condition, he had already done his best.

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