Chapter Sixty-One: The Television Tower

On Mount Yuelu, a figure clad in camouflage gear moved like a phantom through the forest, carrying a bundle that resembled a stack of firewood. He avoided the main road up the mountain, instead darting through the steepest, densest woods as he made his way toward the summit.

Despite the earlier battle on the mountain, Zhao Qiang hadn’t managed to wipe out many of the zombies. Now, with the Sage dead, the surviving zombies had scattered in small groups across every corner of Mount Yuelu. As the figure in camouflage moved, the zombies, like flies catching the scent of flesh, began to pursue him relentlessly.

A paratrooper’s knife spun through the air, and with a muffled thud, buried itself in a zombie’s skull. The creature collapsed limply to the ground. The man in camouflage—known as the Blade—darted forward like lightning. In a single fluid motion, he ran up, bent down, and yanked the knife free, twisting it as he did so, not losing a beat in his speed.

Soon, the Blade spotted the Humvee H6 near Heshipo, a slope beneath the TV tower on Mount Yuelu. The engine was cold, and bullet holes pocked the windshield. The doors hung open, but no one was inside. The Blade carefully searched the area around the vehicle. A trail in the dry grass, as if something heavy had been dragged, caught his eye. There were also splatters of blood on the ground.

Following the trail, he found Zhang Tieniu’s corpse under a large tree. The Blade frowned, examining the body closely. A gaping wound marked Zhang Tieniu’s forehead, the blood long since dried.

A gunshot? The thought flashed through the Blade’s mind, but he quickly dismissed it. The wound was too large to be caused by any existing bullet, and it wasn’t a neat circle—it was oddly flattened. What kind of weapon could have done this? Try as he might, the Blade couldn’t fathom what had ended Zhang Tieniu’s life.

It seemed only Zhao Qiang and Chen Ergou could reveal the truth. The Blade soon gave up trying to determine the cause of death. Judging from the scene, there had been two people in the vehicle: one survived, one died. The survivor dragged the dead man here and was now missing. Finding him was the key to solving the mystery.

Ascending the mountain, the Blade quickly reached the side of the TV tower. This was the place. Signs of a fierce battle were everywhere—spent shell casings, scorched brake marks, a heap of equipment that once belonged to the fat man, and bloodstains on the wall.

Glancing into the pitch-black interior of the TV tower, the Blade found a safe spot to stash his disguised PSL rifle. Drawing a Beretta M9, he advanced cautiously, using the cover around him as he pressed forward inside.

His eyes gradually adjusted to the gloom. That’s when he saw the mutilated corpse of the zombie rat. Hardened as he was by countless battles, the Blade still felt his stomach churn at the gruesome sight. Bits of flesh were scattered everywhere; barely a strip of skin or muscle was left intact on the zombie rat. If not for the huge severed head, he wouldn’t have guessed that this pile of meat once belonged to a beast the size of a calf.

Could the fat man have done this? The Blade’s stomach cramped. He had killed many men, but always from hundreds or even thousands of meters away with a single shot. He’d witnessed Chechen militants behead prisoners, and he’d plunged his paratrooper’s knife into a foe’s chest, but never had he seen anything like this.

This was torture, pure and simple. Surveying the carnage, the Blade made his judgment: the fat man was definitely not a soldier. Soldiers killed with efficiency—one move to finish the enemy, the simplest method, the quickest results. That was the way of the warrior. But this man had hacked a rat to pieces with at least two hundred knife strokes. A truly twisted mind.

Having reached his conclusion, the Blade saw no reason to linger in the hall. The place was a mess of spent violence. After a quick look around, he headed up the tower.

At the top, the Blade froze again. He didn’t know what kind of attack power the zombie rat possessed, so he wasn’t shocked to see the creature butchered. But the Crusher—he knew that monster’s strength. That terrifying physique, that explosive power: the Blade had once faced such a beast. He hadn’t lasted two moves before being punched into the churning river below. If zombies could swim, he’d have died that day at the Crusher’s hands. When he came to, several ribs broken, he’d washed up on the sands of Orange Isle.

Now, the Crusher’s head lay in a corner, its massive body sprawled on the floor. The ground beneath one hand was smashed in, the thick arm hanging limp. A deep, flat knife wound split the elbow joint. Decapitated, the Crusher’s formidable healing ability had been rendered moot. The wound on its neck was smooth and clean—a single, fatal blow.

In the Blade’s mind’s eye, an image took form: a man wielding twin blades, dodging the Crusher’s thunderous attack, pinning its elbow with one knife, then spinning to slash with the other. The blade flashed in the dimness, and the Crusher’s head flew off, thudding into the corner, its grotesque visage frozen in a final roar.

Skirting the corpse, the Blade finally saw Zhao Qiang lying in another corner. Next to him was another mutant zombie, with a head almost comically oversized—split open with a single stroke, grayish brain matter spilling out.

Zhao Qiang was slumped in the corner, head bowed, seemingly lifeless. But through the tattered combat vest at his chest, the Blade saw that his wounds had vanished, and his chest rose and fell ever so slightly—he still had a breath of life left.

The Blade looked around but found no further clues. He picked up the two kukri blades lying by Zhao Qiang’s side, twirled them expertly in his hands, a hint of admiration on his face, then tucked them into his belt with a sigh. With a single motion, he hoisted Zhao Qiang onto his shoulder and strode for the exit.

“Don’t move!” came a weak but determined voice from the doorway.

The Blade looked up to see Wang Ergou, gun raised, the barrel aimed square at his chest. Wang Ergou had never met the Blade before; only Meng Longwei and a few senior officers knew of his existence. Ordinary soldiers like Wang Ergou were unaware of him. Now, seeing a stranger sneaking in and trying to take Brother Zhao while he was away, Wang Ergou couldn’t just stand by. Despite his exhaustion, he raised his weapon, summoned his courage, and blocked the intruder’s path.