Military Identification G32 Wetland.
The former natural wetland was now a landscape of devastation.
Dense reed beds lay trampled and broken, with many areas turned into charred mires by artillery fire and heavy boots.
Murky ponds reflected the leaden sky, floating with oil slicks, fragments of broken equipment, and even the occasional sight of a bloated, pale corpse.
The air was thick with the pungent stench of stagnant water, gunpowder, blood, and waste.
The remnants of the 103rd Division, routed from the front lines, were like driftwood scattered by a tide.
Eventually, the operations staff had done their best to gather, drive, and settle them in this relatively defensible wetland area.
Temporary tents, shacks cobbled together from tarps and branches, and even shell craters and trenches used as bunkers were scattered in a dense, chaotic mess.
The painful groans of the wounded, the hollow whispers of soldiers, the irritable shouting of officers, and the intermittent static from radios formed a symphony of failure and despair.
In the center of this chaos, within a more organized command area, several of the largest military tents stood out.
Outside one dark green tent, a symbolic cordon had been established.
Two guards stood there; though exhausted, they tried their best to keep their backs straight.
However, the confusion and unease in their eyes were no different from the other soldiers in the wetland.
Inside the tent, the light was dim, provided only by a gas lamp hanging from the central support pole.
Waterproof canvas covered the damp mud floor, yet it still emitted a persistent earthy smell.
A folding field table sat in one corner, covered with crumpled maps and several illegibly scrawled reports.
On one side of the table sat a senior colonel with four stars on two bars.
He was in his late forties, with a thin face, protruding cheekbones, and sunken eyes that bore deep marks left by days of command and anxiety.
The senior colonel wore a mud-stained uniform, yet his collar was buttoned meticulously.
He was the current acting supreme commander of the 103rd Division — Deputy Chief of Staff Zhao Zhenwu.
At this moment, Zhao Zhenwu sat with his hands crossed on the table, leaning slightly forward.
His eyes stared coldly and without emotion at the man across from him.
Opposite the table stood a colonel with three stars.
He was slightly younger than Zhao Zhenwu, with a burly build.
His face bore the marks of wind, frost, and fatigue, but his eyes were sharp and persistent as he glared at Zhao Zhenwu.
He was Lu Fan, the commander of the 682nd Heavy Regiment, which was one of the 103rd Division’s main infantry regiments and the unit with the most intact structure among the remaining forces.
In addition, he had another identity — he was the younger brother of the 103rd Division’s Political Commissar, Lu Sanshan.
The air inside the tent felt frozen, with only the faint hissing of the burning gas lamp.
After a long silence, Lu Fan took a deep breath, breaking the suffocating quiet.
His voice sounded somewhat hoarse and strained as he suppressed his emotions.
“Deputy Chief of Staff, I don’t want to say much else. I just want a clear answer from you.”
He took a step forward, leaning his hands on the rough edge of the table.
He leaned in, his gaze burning into Zhao Zhenwu’s face like a welding torch.
“Division Commander Su Xi… did he really defect?”
This question was like a red-hot iron thrown directly between the two men.
Zhao Zhenwu’s pupils contracted imperceptibly, but the icy expression on his face did not change.
Not even his interlaced fingers moved.
He simply continued to look at Lu Fan with eyes deep as pools, answering with a question in a voice so steady no emotion could be detected.
“Colonel Lu, the troop deployment and detailed defensive plans were leaked on a large scale at the beginning of the war, causing our army to be passive at every turn and suffer heavy losses. This is an undeniable fact that every unit on the front lines witnessed. Do you have any objection to this?”
Lu Fan’s brow furrowed.
“I have no objection! But that doesn’t directly prove—”
Zhao Zhenwu interrupted him, his tone still steady but carrying an unquestionable sense of pressure.
“Then tell me, if the Division Commander did not defect, if he did not collaborate with the Shi Bian Ti from the inside, why did the enemy react so quickly to our adjustments?”
“Why did the attacks of the Shi Bian Ti always land on our weakest and most recently adjusted positions?”
“Why were all our decisions exposed right under their noses?”
“This…”
Lu Fan was momentarily speechless.
This was exactly the biggest mystery in his heart and one of the reasons that had prompted him to come and question Zhao.
Zhao Zhenwu gave him no time to think, continuing to throw out a series of questions.
His speaking speed wasn’t fast, but each question was like a hammer blow.
“If the Division Commander did not defect, why did the frontline command headquarters suddenly lose all contact when our defensive lines were strained and we needed unified command most?”
“Radio silence can be understood, but even the multiple reconnaissance and liaison teams we sent out according to emergency protocols have all vanished without a trace, leaving neither the living nor the dead? Is this normal military command behavior?”
Hearing this, Lu Fan pursed his lips even tighter.
The loss of contact with headquarters was the final straw that crushed the psychological defenses of many officers and soldiers.
It was also the key factor behind the growing rumors of the “Division Commander’s defection.”
He could not explain any of this.
“Furthermore,” Zhao Zhenwu leaned back slightly, but the pressure in his gaze intensified, “as the commander of the most intact main force remaining in the 103rd Division, is all you care about whether my decisions are compliant?”
He slowly stood up.
This movement made his thin frame appear even taller and more oppressive under the dim light.
Zhao Zhenwu turned around and raised his hand to point at the battlefield situation map hanging on the tent’s canvas behind him, marked with countless red and blue arrows and symbols of defeat.
“Colonel Lu, look for yourself.”
His voice lowered, carrying a heavy and suffocating sense of reality.
“The main cluster of Shi Bian Ti — latest reconnaissance shows their vanguard is no more than 80 kilometers from Bin Hai City at most. As for their advance units and fast-moving mobile clusters, they are only 20 kilometers from this G32 Wetland… or even closer.”
His finger slid across the map, finally stopping on the blue circle representing the G32 Wetland and several road markers extending outward that were tightly blocked by red arrows.
“Our main retreat routes, the highways and abandoned railway lines on both the east and west sides, have already been blocked by them. Our current situation…”
Zhao Zhenwu slowly turned his head to look at Lu Fan again.
There was no exaggerated expression on his face, but his sunken eyes held a nearly cruel calm.
“To put it bluntly, we are like turtles in a jar, blocked here with no way to advance or retreat.”
Lu Fan’s expression became exceptionally grim.
Looking at that blue island on the map, almost completely surrounded by red arrows, his fists clenched involuntarily.
What Zhao Zhenwu said was a bloody reality.
This remnant force was indeed in a desperate situation.
“But that isn’t the most critical point.”
Zhao Zhenwu’s tone suddenly grew heavier, carrying a deeper anxiety and a certain sense of responsibility that seemed almost performed.
“The most critical point is — what about the people of Bin Hai?”
He walked back to the table and pressed his hands heavily onto the surface, leaning forward to stare at Lu Fan.
“What kind of decent defensive force is left in the city now? A haphazardly assembled reserve? The Law Enforcement Bureau maintaining order? Firefighters from the Firefighting Department putting out fires? Can these people stop the main force of Abnormal Beings, who are like wolves and tigers and have already broken through our regular army’s defenses?”
He answered his own question, his voice carrying a chilling certainty.
“They can’t! They absolutely cannot! In less than 1 day — no.”
Zhao Zhenwu shook his head, a nearly compassionate yet cruel expression appearing on his face.
“It might not even take 1 morning. Once the main force of the Shi Bian Ti reaches the city gates, Bin Hai… will completely fall. 1.76 million citizens of Bin Hai… surely you can imagine their fate, Lu Fan?”
This hellish picture caused Lu Fan’s breath to catch.
As a soldier, protecting the people was his sacred duty.
Thinking of the tragedy that might occur in Bin Hai, he felt a heart-wrenching pain and powerlessness.
At that moment, Zhao Zhenwu slowly straightened up.
The traces of performed compassion and anxiety quickly faded, replaced once more by a cold, business-like seriousness.
He looked at Lu Fan again, his voice deep yet carrying the unquestionable authority of a commander.
“Colonel Lu, at this critical juncture, at a moment of crisis involving the survival of you, me, and even all of Bin Hai… I would much prefer it if you came to me having devised a complete and feasible breakout plan — even if we could only preserve a portion of our strength to fight back to Bin Hai and establish a final line of defense, buying even 1 minute more for the citizens to evacuate!”
His voice suddenly rose, carrying a sharp rebuke.
“Instead of running here to question me with irrelevant and meaningless problems. Do you,” Zhao Zhenwu finally stared into Lu Fan’s eyes, speaking one word at a time, “understand?”