Dual-wielding! 100x proficiency, I'll grind my way to godhood!

At 2 a.m., on the northern route of Gala Pass, the temperature was minus 23 degrees Celsius.

Two thousand Indian soldiers huddled behind piles of rocks on the reverse slope, grimacing from the cold.

Captain Singh, who was leading the team, was wrapped in two military overcoats. He squatted in a crevice between rocks, his hands red and stiff from the cold, and he was clutching a photograph tightly.

The man in the photo is wearing a Chinese military uniform, with the rank of major general on his shoulder, and his face is as cold as iron.

This person was none other than Ye Jingge!

This is intelligence personally sent from the Black Palace.

This photo had already been shown to every soldier. You could say that everyone was waiting for this man to appear; as long as they captured him, they could get promoted and make a fortune.

A reward of one million rupees will be given for capturing him alive, and even if he is killed, the reward will be five hundred thousand.

Singh rubbed his hands together and breathed on them, his gaze sweeping over the spiked clubs in the soldiers' hands.

For many years, the border has had a tacitly accepted rule that firearms are not allowed, and only melee weapons are permitted.

But this time it's different; they have the numerical advantage.

"Ten against one, plus the Black Cat Special Forces cooperating, this round is a sure win."

The soldiers held spiked clubs in their arms; the metal handles were icy cold, and their palms went numb after gripping them for a while.

The dried naan I ate before setting off had long been digested, and now my stomach was so empty I felt anxious. The cold wind was blowing down my spine through my collar, making me shiver.

Someone was squatting on the ground, burying their face in their knees and dozing off, their head almost falling off the ground.

Some people stuff their frozen fingers into their armpits and hold them there, taking them out every few seconds to rub them a couple of times; their fingertips are already frozen purple.

I endured it for a full five hours.

As dawn broke, Singh's legs went numb from squatting, and he stumbled when he stood up.

He glanced at his watch; it was already seven o'clock, and he hadn't seen a soul in sight.

"Fuck! The intelligence couldn't be fake, could it?"

He swore, and the soldiers at the observation post ahead scrambled over, so cold they could barely speak.

"Captain! They're here!"

Ye Jingge and Chen Mo led their team toward Gala Pass.

The two hundred soldiers behind him had already slept for eight hours and had breakfast, and were all full of energy.

Each of them also carried a spiked club, but it was thicker and larger than the Indian army's.

A new recruit grinned and said to the person next to him.

"My arm used to ache after swinging this thing seven or eight times, but now it feels like a wooden stick in my hand."

No one responded.

During this period of cultivation, everyone broke through to the fifth level of body refinement and gained more than 500 jin of strength, so the 20-odd jin spiked club was indeed not much of a weight.

At 7:00 a.m. sharp, the troops arrived on the north side of the mountain pass.

We had just reached the open area in the middle of the mountain pass.

"Let's do it!"

Singh let out a roar.

In an instant, countless Indian troops poured out from behind the reverse slope, from the crevices in the rock wall, and from the piles of rocks on both sides.

Two thousand people, a dark mass, pressed in from all directions, surrounding the two hundred Chinese soldiers.

Singh, holding a large megaphone, walked triumphantly to the front and shouted in a loud, curry-filled Chinese accent.

"Ye Jingge! You've been ambushed! We knew you'd come here! If you want to live, throw down your weapons and kneel down to surrender!"

No one on the other end paid him any attention.

Two hundred Chinese soldiers automatically formed a circle, facing outwards, clutching spiked clubs, without even lifting their eyelids.

Ye Jingge stood at the very front of the circular formation, with two spiked clubs crossed on his back. His face was expressionless, as if he hadn't heard Singh's words at all.

Feeling embarrassed, Singh took two steps forward and held up the photo in his hand, looking back and forth between Ye Jingge's face for a while.

"That's right! It's him! The young general of the Ye family! Capture him alive and take him back for the reward!"

"roar!"

Two thousand Indian soldiers shouted in unison and pounded the ground with their spiked clubs, creating a deafening roar.

Singh became even more smug, continuing to shout through the megaphone, his tone full of mockery.

"Ye Jingge! I know you're from the Ye family, someone of high status. Kneel down and kowtow three times to me now, and I'll spare your life, how about it?"

The Indian soldiers behind him burst into laughter, some whistling, some shouting profanities in Hindi, and foul language flying everywhere.

Ye Jingge remained silent.

Chen Mo, standing next to him, had his hands in his pockets, his eyelids drooping, looking like he hadn't woken up yet.

After laughing enough, Singh glanced at Chen Mo next to Ye Jingge.

The man had long hair tied back, fair and delicate skin, and didn't look like a soldier, but standing next to Ye Jingge, he was clearly a leader.

Singh didn't recognize him and was too lazy to ask, so he casually joked with the adjutant next to him in Hindi.

"Look at that pretty boy, all skinny and thin. You could probably break his bones with one blow. Let's catch him alive and make him wash our socks."

Two thousand people laughed so hard they were doubled over, and tears were almost streaming down their faces.

Amidst the deafening laughter,

The two hundred Chinese soldiers remained standing ramrod straight, no one spoke, no one moved.

Everyone's fingers were slowly tightening.

The air was like a fully drawn bow, just waiting for that final release.

The sounds of laughter still echoed in the valley.

Chen Mo slowly took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, pulled one out, and put it in his mouth.

The lighter clicked, the flame flickered in the wind, I lit it, took a drag, and white smoke drifted from the corner of my mouth, slowly dissipating in the cold air.

Then he turned his head and looked at Ye Jingge next to him.

"Let's do it!"

"Leave no one alive!"

Ye Jingge grabbed the handle of the spiked club behind his back with both hands and slowly pulled it out, letting it hang down at his sides.

He took half a step forward and bent his waist down.

"All hands on deck!"

Two hundred hands gripped the spiked clubs simultaneously.

"kill!"

In short, decisive.

"kill!!!"

Two hundred roars exploded simultaneously, like thunderclaps from a clear sky, completely drowning out the laughter of the two thousand Indian soldiers.

The circular formation exploded outwards instantly.

The soldiers at the front row swung their spiked clubs and smashed them down on the heads of the Indian soldiers opposite them.

With a force of over 500-600 jin (approximately 250-300 kg) plus the weight of the iron bar, this strike delivers a force of over 1,000 jin (approximately 500 kg).

The Indian soldier at the front raised his bat to block, and with a "crack," the spiked club in his hand was smashed in two.

The Chinese soldiers didn't stop hitting him with their sticks; they smashed them directly onto the top of his head.

Skull fractured!

Red and white splattered all over the ground, and the person fell straight down.

A soldier nearby swung his bat and smashed it into the Indian soldier's chest.

He broke seven or eight ribs and flew backward, crashing into his companions behind him and knocking down three or four of them.

There was no stalemate, no probing.

It was a one-sided crushing defeat.

The Indian army's front-line encirclement was as fragile as paper, easily broken with a single poke.

The moment they met, the first few hundred people fell to the ground, screams erupting from all directions at once, like pigs being slaughtered.

Someone tried to run backwards, but was pushed around by the people behind him and couldn't move. He turned around and was hit with a stick, falling down on the spot.

Someone was swinging a stick wildly, but couldn't even touch the hem of a Chinese soldier's clothes. Instead, the soldier was hit on the arm with the stick, exposing the bone.

Two hundred people, like two hundred meat grinders, crushed from the center outwards, leaving no Indian standing in their wake.