The wind was whistling.
The whole jungle was like a flaming mountain, and the mountain burst into colors of flames. There was the sound of gunshots and ammunition everywhere.
Meng Qi crouched in the jungle. His gaze was cold. Through his scope, he kept looking at them. He looked at them running as if they were cheetahs in the jungle. They ran especially fast, making it seem as if they were sure that they would be killed by the people behind them if they were even a little slower. This kind of speed was very terrifying.
The thorns were hitting their limbs continuously, but nobody cared.
The cold, mechanical voice of a female kept ringing continuously.
There were injured people. There were people who died. The number of people remaining was decreasing continuously.
Beckett asked, "Meng Qi, why aren't you shooting?"
