# Chapter Ninety-One: Game and Reality

Because we are accurate! Because we are ruthless! Because we do not fear death! Because we dare to die! Zhao Qiang had heard this battle cry more than once, and every time he roared it out alongside his comrades, his blood ran hot with fierce exhilaration.

Both the density and accuracy of enemy fire had escalated by several degrees. The straight-line distance between the terminal and the control tower was no more than two hundred meters — a distance Zhao Qiang could cover in under half a minute under normal circumstances — yet ten full minutes had passed and the squad had not advanced a single step.

When they had left the prison, Wei Tao had insisted the squad take along several ballistic shields. At first, both Zhao Qiang and Cai Jiashu had been reluctant, arguing that against a rabble of amateurs, shields would only be a burden. The fighting inside the terminal seemed to confirm their view — the "Black Warriors" had given them no occasion whatsoever to use the shields. As Cai Jiashu put it, carrying ballistic shields was no better than carrying umbrellas. Every shot the enemy fired had gone into the ceiling, sending showers of shattered glass and broken concrete raining down until every man in the squad was coated in grey dust.

But when it came to storming the control tower, Zhao Qiang finally understood Wei Tao's foresight. The tower commanded an unobstructed view of the surrounding terrain, with a wide expanse of open ground on all sides. No matter which direction one approached from, suppressing fire from above was unavoidable. Had this been a straightforward assault with no other considerations, they could simply have brought up rocket launchers and artillery and blown the thing to rubble — but this was a rescue operation, and the squad had no choice but to press the attack head-on.

At first, operating on the principle of not wasting what they had already brought, the squad adopted a defensive formation, crouching behind the ballistic shields and advancing toward the control tower. But the fire coming from the tower was far more intense than anyone had anticipated. Bullets hammered against the shields with thunderous cracks, and Zhao Qiang, holding his shield at the front of the column, very nearly lost his grip. In less than half a minute the surface of the shields was a web of countless fractures, and the observation windows of ballistic glass had been pounded into opacity. Seeing that the shields were on the verge of total failure, the squad had no choice but to fall back.

The intercom crackled to life again. This time the voice was one Zhao Qiang felt he half-recognized, though he could not immediately place it.

"Well then, cowards — frightened, are you? Come on, if you've got the nerve — ha ha ha." The mocking laughter echoed from every corner of the terminal, pouring shamelessly into the ears of every squad member. Whoever owned that voice was thoroughly pleased with himself; the squad's recent setback had clearly been observed with great satisfaction.

"Bastard!" Zhao Qiang slammed the ballistic shield onto the floor with all his strength. With a tremendous clang it shattered into pieces, the already battered shield finally giving way.

Cai Jiashu was equally consumed by fury. Since the squad's formation, they had never suffered such a humiliating repulse — driven back by the enemy — and there was no way he could simply swallow that.

Had it not been for Ergou, the assault on the control tower might have remained deadlocked indefinitely. The value of a truly skilled sniper is no less than that of an additional elite fire team. In order to bring the squad's full combat power to bear, Cai Jiashu changed tactics. Ergou was once again detached from the main element and deployed independently inside the terminal as a separate fighting force.

The squad moved out again. This time they brought every remaining ballistic shield, falling into the defensive formation they had drilled countless times and moving once more toward the control tower. Once again, amid the omnipresent mocking laughter, a torrent of gunfire came crashing down upon them. But this time, everything was reversed.

The squad set their teeth and pressed forward, step by resolute step, regardless of how fierce the enemy's fire became. Those inside the control tower never noticed that what had originally been a six-man team now numbered only five. The man they had overlooked was about to become the decisive figure in the battle.

A man who shoots well is not necessarily a fine soldier — but a fine soldier will never shoot poorly. Up in the control tower, the "Black Warriors" stood in swaggering poses at the windows, lips moving in silent rhythm: "One, two, three, pull back — one, two, three, pull back — switch — reload..."

The Type 56 assault rifle and the Type 81 bore a strong resemblance to the AK-47 familiar to every devotee of games like Counter-Strike and CrossFire, and these "Black Warriors" were without exception veterans of those virtual battlefields. Though none of them had received any genuine military training, their long immersion in online gaming had made them a force not entirely to be dismissed.

The dangers of such obsession are not always apparent in ordinary life — amounting to little more than what the so-called experts liked to call "internet addiction syndrome." But on an actual battlefield, the habits formed in games became the very things that got these men killed. In games, tactical movement comes down to two options: stand or crouch. Spot the enemy and open fire — no need to dodge or take cover, because dying just means waiting for the next round, switching to another room and starting over. The AK has damage 43, range 45, stability 25 — I can control the recoil like a god, three shots and you're done.

But they had all forgotten one thing: a battlefield is not a game. There is no "next round" on a battlefield. Once a bullet finds you, no one gets to keep running and gunning. Even the legendary John Rambo, if a Type 56 drilled a hole through him, would not walk away unscathed.

Men love guns — especially men like these "Black Warriors," who had only ever indulged their passion in virtual worlds. When they finally held in their hands the mythical AK-47 of their dreams — in their minds, shaped entirely by Counter-Strike, there was no distinction between the Type 56 and the AK; the Type 56 was the AK, the AK was the Type 56 — their excitement defied all description. One by one they cradled the rifles at their hips, a crumpled cigarette dangling from each lip, faces twisted into savage grins as they squeezed the triggers.

Behind his scope, Ergou wore a savage smile of his own. These idiots — did they truly believe this was a game? Did they not know that a Black Warrior uniform was not a bulletproof vest? Or perhaps they simply did not know what fear was? The crosshairs settled steadily over those fierce yet somehow still-unformed young faces.

Ergou's finger drew back gently and pulled the cold trigger. A 5.8-millimeter brass-jacketed round tore through the air, leaving rippling waves in its wake. After 0.2 seconds of flight across two hundred meters, it bored into the skull of a Black Warrior. At that range the bullet was still scorching hot. The man's head burst apart in an instant, red blood and grey matter spattering across the floor.

Ergou moved like the angel of death, swinging the scythe of his Type 88 sniper rifle, reaping the lives of the Black Warriors one after another. It was like calling a roll — every name the reaper called was answered with a soul dispatched to hell. By the time the survivors registered what was happening, barely any of them remained standing.

The smell of blood inside the control tower was thick enough to choke on. Several Black Warriors, still trembling with shock, turned and saw the scene behind them — a vision of absolute carnage — and could not help themselves. They dropped their weapons, sank into the corners, and retched until there was nothing left in them but bile.