"Boss, can you confirm where the target is? You know… this is Indian territory. If we take too long, the American police won't let us walk away from this," a fully armed white mercenary muttered, chewing gum as he approached a man playing with a dog in the forest. Gunfire crackled in the background, but the man's tone carried more frustration than fear.
To be fair, mercenaries didn't care about morality—they fought for money, not ideals. But everyone knew how sensitive Native American matters were in the United States. The history ran deep. The U.S. government bore heavy responsibility for the near-eradication of Native tribes. Even the British—who were once the most brutal colonizers—had eventually designated the Appalachian Mountains for the Indians.
America's brutal campaigns against its own First Nations were unmatched. To this day, scholars criticize the U.S. government as ungrateful. When the settlers first arrived, it was the Native Americans who helped them survive. That's the commonly accepted origin of Thanksgiving. Ironically, however, many argue the holiday was created by the U.S. military to celebrate the massacre of Native peoples.
In a country that constantly touts racial equality, the history is a bitter contradiction.
Because of this, Native Americans held a unique and protected status in modern U.S. society. For mercenaries to defy global opinion and launch an assault on a Native village… even if successful, they'd never live freely again. Exile was all but guaranteed.
"Relax. I've been here. This village has no electricity—no phones, no signal. We've got time," the white man said with a smile, scratching his puppy's chin.
"I hope so…" the mercenary muttered and gestured to his men to press the attack.
Back in the car, Jiang Hai had already called the police.
The line connected after just two rings. On the other end, the dispatcher fell silent for a second, stunned by the sound of automatic gunfire—this wasn't some petty shootout.
"Hello? What's going on over there?" the officer asked, gripping the receiver tightly.
"This is an Indian tribe in the Appalachian Mountains. I think it's called Toga. They're under attack by an armed group—many people are dead. Please send help immediately," Jiang Hai said urgently.
"Toga… check the coordinates!" The officer barked an order to his colleague and brought up a map. The moment they confirmed the location, the call was escalated to the state police. This wasn't a minor incident.
"Understood. We'll dispatch a helicopter right away. Hang in there," the officer told him.
Jiang Hai said no more. He knew help wouldn't arrive in five minutes. In these mountains, even helicopters would take over half an hour. But he was confident he could hold out.
After hanging up, Jiang Hai climbed into the driver's seat, started the engine, turned the wheel sharply, and drove straight toward the tribe's gate. The mercenaries were already closing in. As soon as Jiang Hai's car rolled into view, its high beams blazed to life, blinding the attackers and exposing their silhouettes.
"Take aim and fire!" Jiang Hai shouted as he flung open the car door. Behind him, the panicked tribesmen were still firing blindly.
Hearing him, the tribal chief quickly translated his words.
With a leader to follow, the tribesmen steadied. Fortunately, most of them had grown up hunting in the forest. Though they had never fought in a real battle, their nerves were strong. Taking cover behind stone or dirt mounds, they began firing with more focus. Their homemade weapons weren't sophisticated, but a hit was still lethal.
"Where the hell did this car come from?!" a mercenary barked from the forest. The sudden appearance of a bulletproof vehicle had thrown them into disarray.
The mercenary leader clenched his jaw. A bulletproof vehicle meant someone important. And in today's world, a car meant a phone—and a phone meant a call had probably already gone out.
If the police had been notified, they had maybe twenty-five minutes left—at best.
"You said there wouldn't be any problems!" he shouted, grabbing the collar of the white man still petting the dog.
That man hadn't accounted for Jiang Hai's presence and froze momentarily. But as he was dragged up, he snapped back.
"What's the point of whining now? The fight's already started. Finish it! Kill everyone—if anyone survives, we're finished!" the man snarled and pushed the mercenary leader back.
The leader glared but knew the man was right. He gave a sharp hand signal.
All at once, the mercenaries stopped creeping forward and broke into a full charge. If they were going to make it out of this, they had to overwhelm the tribe—now.
But Jiang Hai was faster.
Having calmed the tribesmen, he positioned himself strategically, raised his AUG rifle, and peered through the scope. Though the rifle was semi-automatic, he had upgraded it with a 30-round magazine.
Pah! Pah! Pah!
Three consecutive shots echoed. The three fastest mercenaries dropped immediately, each shot drilled into their throats.
Their comrades rushed over, only to find the trio lying motionless—each one with a clean throat shot.
They wore full tactical gear—body armor, helmets. The throat and eyes were their only exposed points, camouflaged in dark paint. A throat shot? That was nearly impossible.
But this was Jiang Hai. With vision eight times sharper than normal and his gun virtually recoil-free in his hands, he was a machine.
"Semi-auto! Protect your throats and eyes! He's got two rounds left—go!" one of the men barked.
Immediately, they hunched forward, necks tucked into their jackets, and sprinted toward him.
Jiang Hai fired twice.
Two more men dropped, but only from the impact—they weren't dead. They scrambled back up and kept moving.
Jiang Hai paused. He wanted them to believe his magazine was empty—five rounds, they assumed.
Sure enough, several attackers picked up speed, thinking him defenseless.
Pah! Pah! Pah! Pah!
Four more dropped, forever silenced.
The mercenary leader flung himself to the ground, cursing. "Bastard's got a 30-round mag. Don't rush!"
Now the enemy adapted. They crouch-ran, guarding their weak spots.
Jiang Hai cursed quietly. His civilian AUG was accurate, but it lacked the power to penetrate high-grade armor or helmets. It was becoming ineffective.
For the first time, Jiang Hai felt frustrated with his weapon. If only he had a sniper rifle…
Spotting Tarak's brother, Patan, still struggling with his homemade gun, Jiang Hai gave a sharp whistle.
When Patan looked over, Jiang Hai tossed him the AUG.
"Aim and fire—it's got a scope!" Jiang Hai shouted.
Patan stared in awe at the sleek rifle—he'd never held such a refined weapon.
With the AUG passed off, Jiang Hai drew his real ace—the Desert Eagle .50 caliber.
At close range—under 50 meters—it was more lethal than any rifle.
He saw the attackers closing in, still around thirty meters away.
Without hesitation, he sprang to his feet and unleashed seven consecutive shots mid-leap.
Four men dropped instantly. Two more were wounded—one in the hand, one in the leg. Another bullet grazed its target.
Though airborne, Jiang Hai's accuracy remained terrifying. But now the mercenary leader was furious.
"Charge!" he roared.
His men were down by half, but he pushed forward without hesitation, leading them toward the village gate.
Jiang Hai reloaded swiftly, then prepared to shoot again. But as soon as he rose, the enemy unleashed a storm of bullets.
His bulletproof shield held firm—though spiderwebbed with cracks, it had saved him again.
Jiang Hai cursed. A good shield, but not enough.
He flung open the opposite car door, surprising the enemy, and from behind the cover, fired two more precise shots.
Bang! Bang!
Two men dropped, screaming. Their knees shattered. Even body armor was useless against the Desert Eagle's devastating force at ten meters.
"Retreat!" Jiang Hai shouted.
His order carried weight. The tribe respected strength, and Jiang Hai had proven himself—eight straight victories during the daytime games, and now singlehandedly stopping the enemy advance.
Without hesitation, the tribesmen grabbed what they could and fell back.
The houses could be rebuilt. Lives could not.
As everyone retreated, Jiang Hai floored the accelerator, charging straight at the mercenaries.
They were fast, but not faster than a car. As the vehicle barreled toward them, the leader barked an order, and they scattered.
At that moment, Jiang Hai leaned out the door and fired the last five bullets.
Each shot hit its mark.
Five bullets, five deaths.
Spinning the wheel, he turned back into the village. The square where the tribal games had taken place now stood eerily silent.
Behind it, a row of stone houses—homes of the elders and chiefs—had become the last line of defense.
Inside, the young and strong held their ground while the weak and elderly huddled in the rear.
Jiang Hai screeched to a halt in front of the houses, grabbed his remaining magazines, and jumped out of the car.
As he ran toward the defense line, every pair of eyes turned to him.
The tribe's hope had returned.
(To be continued.)