Chapter 1: First Arrival on the Battlefield

Bullets sliced through the air, weaving crisscrossing trajectories that formed a deadly net, and the cacophony of gunfire shattered the tranquility that had settled over the North African desert night. Benghazi, perched on the eastern coast of the Gulf of Sirte along the Mediterranean, was Libya’s second-largest city. Yet, in this moment, the city was transformed into a living hell the instant the shooting began.

Flames surged towards the sky as entire blocks of buildings collapsed under a barrage of shells, sending fragments of stone and debris raining down, burying what remained of ruined walls. Bullets whizzed in every direction, and in the blink of an eye, crowds fell en masse into pools of blood, as if Judgment Day had descended. Mere moments before, these people had been alive and breathing.

The streets were chaos—locals and stranded tourists alike scattered in panic, darting frantically like headless chickens. Voices of every hue—white, black, and yellow—rose in a deafening chorus of cries and screams.

This was no Hollywood blockbuster.

This was war.

A rocket, trailing a long tail of fire, crashed into the façade of a barbershop and exploded with a thunderous roar, sending a cloud of smoke mingling with pulverized cement and brick in all directions.

Li Changjiang had no time for complaints. Another explosion tore through the night, and he was thrown bodily into the air by the blast wave.

The instant he hit the ground, his mind reeled. He desperately wanted to get up and continue running, but his head suddenly felt oppressively heavy, his limbs numb and unresponsive. A tide of memories and images surged forth, overwhelming his fear.

For Li Changjiang, who came from a modest family and had failed the college entrance exam less than a year ago, to die like this felt like a terrible waste. As his mind's eye fixed on his father, Li Lin—lost somewhere amidst the fleeing crowd—an overwhelming drowsiness finally drowned his last thread of consciousness. Beyond the continuing thunder of war, the world fell into utter silence.

Over the city, the sky darkened.

Amidst the ruins.

No one knew how much time had passed when Li Changjiang’s fingertips twitched.

He forced his eyes open. The scene before him was both disorienting and strangely unfamiliar.

Aching from head to toe, he inhaled sharply, the pain jolting his senses back to life. Gradually, memories of what had happened before he lost consciousness flooded back.

War had broken out.

He was bewildered, but soon noticed his thoughts had become oddly wild and unfettered. There’s a saying that a newborn calf fears no tiger, and inside, he felt an inexplicable surge of excitement.

“Maybe I’ve been blasted senseless—why the hell am I so thrilled?” he muttered to himself.

A distant explosion snapped his wandering mind back to reality.

“No, I need to find my dad.”

Hearing the blast, Li Changjiang’s instincts took over. He pressed his body close to the wall, surveyed his surroundings, and began inching westward.

Suddenly, unfamiliar voices echoed around the deserted street corner. He hardly dared to breathe, dropping flat and playing dead, peeking out of the corner of his eye in the direction of the voices. The humiliation was almost unbearable.

Within ten seconds, several figures came into view.

Rebels.

Clad in drab, khaki uniforms—if one could even call them uniforms—three men each carried an AK-47. The first two spoke quietly, while the tall one in the rear kept a wary eye on their surroundings.

Lying prone, Li Changjiang was suddenly assaulted by a nauseating stench.

But then, elation surged through him.

A gun.

A real gun.

The cold weight of the wooden stock pressed into his palm, sending a jolt all the way to his brain. His heart pounded, blood raced, his eyes stung with pressure, and his stomach lurched. His hands trembled—part nerves, part exhilaration.

Still, the sticky blood from the corpse beneath him threatened to make him retch. Yet the thrill of holding a real weapon overwhelmed the sickening odor and the sight of death.

As the three men wandered off, Li Changjiang fought down his nausea and pried the rifle from the corpse’s hands, clumsily opening the chamber and magazine—only to freeze in dismay.

No bullets.

A tragedy, as frustrating as lying atop the most beautiful woman in the world only to find you can’t undo her belt.

But Li Changjiang was not one to give up. He forced himself to search the corpse’s chest, and his fingers soon found something hard.

A magazine.

The instant he grabbed it, his heart skipped a beat.

Not good.

It was dark, but the sound he’d made loading the rifle was as loud as shouting, “I’m right here! Come and get me!”

Footsteps. The three rebels were coming back.

Li Changjiang had no time to hesitate. He grabbed the rifle and magazine, stuck his rear in the air, and sprinted for his life.

Bang, bang, bang!

Bullets clanged off the ground where he had just been hiding.

The rebels were in hot pursuit, less than fifty meters behind. The AK series was the world's most renowned assault rifle, lethal up to four hundred meters—at fifty, it was devastating.

But they were even more amateur than Li Changjiang had imagined. The world knew the Libyan rebels were, at heart, nothing but armed peasants.

Without thinking, as bullets whipped past his backside, Li Changjiang dove into a derelict house across the street.

Thuds echoed as bullets slammed into the wooden door, making his skin crawl.

Terrifying.

Utterly terrifying.

Collapsed on the floor, every muscle in his body trembled violently, his hands and feet shook, his eyes wide with shock—and unmistakable excitement.

Exhilarating.

Seeing their quarry had hidden inside, and unsure of the situation, the three rebels didn’t attempt to follow, instead firing blindly into the building from outside.

Slowly, Li Changjiang calmed his nerves.

He clutched the rifle tightly in one hand.

After a long moment, he dared to edge towards a crack in the wall and peer outside.

A sudden burst of gunfire.

Damn it—what rotten luck!

He’d barely poked his head out when the three rebels opened fire, spraying bullets haphazardly. If their aim had been any better, he’d already be dead.

Even so, he nearly pissed himself, his face drained of color.

If I wet myself now, I’ll never live it down.

He spat out the grit that had flown into his mouth and quickly shifted to a new spot. The shooting had stopped, but the rebels remained outside.

He checked the magazine.

Only five rounds left. The sight made him tremble with excitement.

Clumsily, he loaded the magazine, took a deep breath, and prepared to return fire. But as he raised the rifle and squinted through the sight, he froze, terror etched across his face.

A request for a recommendation ticket!