When Jiang Cheng stepped through the village gate, the gunpowder smoke had not yet fully dissipated.
The smell of rust mixed with a cloying sweetness clung to his nasal cavity.
He pushed open the car door, and that scent rushed at him, making his stomach churn.
Although he had let the Security Squad handle many such matters, Jiang Cheng had never been present at the scene.
This was his first time seeing such a bloody scene.
Standing by the car, he took a deep breath, trying to suppress the odor.
But every breath he took was filled with the smell of blood, like drinking a mouthful of rusty water.
The ground was pitted and uneven; stepping on it meant either mud or gravel.
After a few steps, Jiang Cheng felt his foot step on something soft.
Looking down, it was actually a severed finger.
The cut was no longer bleeding; it was grayish-white and covered in mud.
Jiang Cheng's stomach churned again.
He turned his head away and continued walking forward.
Zhou Guanshan followed half a step behind him.
This old border guard, who had spent thirty years on the frontier, had seen too many scenes like this.
From the infighting of drug lords in the Golden Triangle to the skirmishes of local armed forces, what hadn't he seen?
His eyes swept over the bodies on the ground, the bullet holes on the walls, and the concentration of smoke in the air, his mind already calculating the intensity and tactics of the battle just now.
But his gaze never left Jiang Cheng's back.
Truth be told, if Jiang Cheng hadn't activated the Sit Like a Divine Bell when getting out of the car, he would never have been able to maintain such a calm and composed expression right now.
After all, he was a normal person, not someone with a heart of stone.
Facing such a bloody scene, any human would inevitably have some reaction.
Zhou Guanshan's eyelid twitched.
He silently compared himself in his mind.
When he first went to the battlefield at nineteen and saw a corpse, his legs were weak for three whole days.
But now, looking at Jiang Cheng's back, he suddenly had a very strange feeling.
This young man's toughness was innate.
Like a raw stone that hadn't been polished yet, you didn't know exactly how hard it was.
But you could tell at a single glance.
Nothing could be seen on his face.
No fear, no disgust, and none of the uncontrollable panic that someone seeing blood for the first time would have.
He didn't even intentionally keep a stiff face—it was just very calm, as calm as if he were strolling through his own backyard garden.
When his foot stepped on that finger, his pace didn't even falter for a second.
He just glanced down and then continued walking forward, as if he had only stepped on a withered branch.
This quality seemed innate, not something intentionally faked.
Wang Sheng emerged from the shadows, his face still stained with soot, but his eyes were frighteningly bright.
Behind him followed four members of the Security Squad, their gun muzzles still steaming.
"Young Master Jiang, Chaqin is dead. Two of his underlings escaped, but they won't be able to stir up any trouble," he said in a hushed voice.
Jiang Cheng nodded.
The further they went inside, the heavier the smell became. The scents of gunpowder, charred remains, and blood were all mixed together.
Shell casings were everywhere on the ground, crunching underfoot.
Several corpses lay at the base of the walls, some curled up, some face down, their expressions flickering in the firelight.
"Young Master Jiang?" Wang Sheng seemed to have thought of this too, glancing back at Jiang Cheng.
They were all used to blood, but Jiang Cheng was different.
At his age and with such a noble status, seeing this kind of scene for the first time should have been very uncomfortable.
Xia Li, who was following behind Jiang Cheng, was jolted awake by Wang Sheng's words.
Her tense nerves relaxed slightly.
She asked, "Young Master Jiang, are you alright?"
Jiang Cheng shook his head: "Let's go..."
Seeing that Jiang Cheng's expression seemed very calm, even carrying a hint of natural authority, the two of them finally felt relieved.
"Let's go. Where is Kun Tui?" Jiang Cheng responded.
"First floor. He's treating his wounds himself, won't let anyone else touch him." Wang Sheng paused, his expression a bit strange. "That guy... is quite tough. He took a bullet to the shoulder and has two broken ribs, yet he insisted on waiting for you on his knees."
Jiang Cheng didn't speak and headed toward the building.
He reached the stilt house. The smell here was slightly fainter.
The stilt house was very dim, with only a kerosene lamp on the table, its flame flickering in the wind.
Kun Tui was leaning in a corner, sitting on the floor with his back against a wooden pillar.
His left hand clutched his right shoulder; his fingers were covered in blood that was already half-dry, forming dark red scabs.
There was also blood on his face, though it was unclear if it was someone else's or his own.
Hearing footsteps, he snapped his head up.
The moment he saw Jiang Cheng, his eyes suddenly lit up.
Not the light of a hunter seeing prey, but the light of a drowning person seeing the shore.
"Young Master Jiang..." he spoke, his voice as raspy as sandpaper on wood.
Then he moved.
He propped himself against the pillar and stood up bit by bit.
The movement pulled at the wound on his right shoulder, and blood seeped through his fingers again. He gritted his teeth, the muscles on his face trembling, but he managed to stand firm.
Once standing, he let go of the pillar and bent his knees.
With a "thud,"
He knelt.
It wasn't the slow, gradual kneeling seen in TV dramas.
It was the kind of kneeling that came from total conviction, resignation, and acceptance of his fate. His knees hit the ground with a dull thud that seemed to echo in everyone's hearts.
"Young Master Jiang." His voice was trembling, but not from pain. "Kun Tui... kowtows to you."
His forehead struck the ground with another dull thud.
Once.
Twice.
Thrice.
After the third time, he didn't get up. He just lay there on the ground, his forehead pressed against the floor, his shoulders twitching.
Cold sweat trickled down his neck.
His voice was so raspy it was almost tuneless, mixed with the relief of surviving a disaster and a deep-seated fear.
"Young Master Jiang!"
His forehead was almost glued to the floor.
"You've finally come!"
"Thank you for saving us... otherwise, my brothers and I would have died at Chaqin's hands today!"
"Young Master Jiang, I... I didn't expect you to come. I thought I was going to die here."
He looked up, his face covered in blood, soot, and tears.
A man in his forties who had spent over twenty years in Northern Myanmar and had untold amounts of blood on his hands was now kneeling on the ground, tears mixing with blood as they flowed down.
"Young Master Jiang, my, Kun Tui's, life... was given by you."
As he said this, he looked directly at Jiang Cheng. There was no cunning or calculation in his eyes, only one thing.
Submission.
Complete submission.
His mind was filled with that "boom" from earlier.
That RPG round.
It wasn't that he hadn't seen an RPG before.
Having spent so many years in Northern Myanmar, who hadn't seen a few rocket-propelled grenades?
But he had never seen anyone shoulder an RPG and fire it without a word in such a small-scale conflict.
This wasn't a fight.
This was a massacre.
Chaqin's men, his own underlings, and even Kun Tui himself—everyone was armed with AKs, pistols, or light machine guns.
In Northern Myanmar, these were the standard, "sufficient" equipment.
But Jiang Cheng's people carried RPGs.
It was like a group of people fighting with kitchen knives, and the other side suddenly pulled out a cannon.
This kind of gap in military power wasn't a question of "can we win?"
It was a question of "does the other side want you to live?"
Jiang Cheng looked down at him.
He didn't tell him to get up.
"Where are they?"
Kun Tui nodded hurriedly and stepped aside to make way.
"They are right here, completely unharmed and without a single injury... I had people guarding them the whole time and didn't dare to be even slightly negligent!"