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The night saturated everything, with a moonlit sky sparsely dotted by stars, the scent of blood diffuse.
The once flat land, mangled by the aftermath of a fierce battle, was now a crisscross of scars upon the dark green grass, pockmarked and too ghastly to behold.
Li Yan, his right hand clutching a wound, looked around with cold eyes. Those who had surged forth in a sudden assault, overwhelming in their momentum, now lay without exception in pools of blood.
The whoosh of breaking air grew from distant to near as three entirely black helicopters, each adorned with a white third eye painted on their noses, descended with commanding presence. The cabin doors were violently flung open, and rescue workers wearing gas masks and thick protective gear filed out, lifting the heavily injured—either unconscious or groaning in pain—onto stretchers before whisking them into the helicopters. Throughout the process, not a single superfluous word was spoken.
