Rebirth of a Mercenary: The Ace Mercenary Forced to Be the Beloved of the Group

The moment the members of Group A stood up from behind their cover, the mercenaries on the opposite side were stunned for a moment.

"Suppressive fire! All men, open fire!" came the French sergeant's roar from the loudspeaker. His previously relaxed French accent had vanished, replaced by a furious outburst of anger.

The heavy machine guns spewed out half-meter-long muzzle flashes from the rooftop, bullets sweeping across the spot where Group A had just stood like iron brooms, sending debris flying everywhere. The machine guns on the armored vehicles opened fire simultaneously, crossfire weaving a dense, impenetrable net across the open ground.

But none of the members of Group A stayed in place.

Xie Ran circled around from the left, carrying the captured machine gun as he ran and fired. His bullets deliberately avoided the frontal armor of the armored vehicle, targeting the gaps in the machine gunner's firing range on the roof.

The bullet struck the armored vehicle's bulletproof glass. Although it didn't penetrate, cracks spread like a spiderweb, forcing the driver inside to instinctively veer off course. That slight veer caused the heavy machine gun's trajectory to deviate by fifteen degrees, sending a plume of mud flying across the open ground.

"Machine gunner, reload! Shen Zhuo!" Xie Ran roared, slinging off the empty ammunition belt and sliding into the nearest cover.

Shen Zhuo had already rushed out during the gap while the machine gunner was reloading. He didn't rush towards the armored vehicle, but instead circled around to the flank along the ruins of the old mine wall.

The three mercenaries who were trying to flank the enemy had just turned the corner when they ran into a figure covered in blood, holding a knife in both hands, and smiling broadly.

The first man instinctively raised his gun, but the distance was too close. The gun barrel was deflected by the back of Shen Zhuo's knife with his left hand, and the dagger in his right hand stabbed into his chin from below.

Before the second person could react, Shen Zhuo had already pulled the dagger from the first corpse and plunged it into the side of his neck.

The third man's gun butt slammed into Shen Zhuo's shoulder. Shen Zhuo's body swayed, and using the momentum from the impact, he spun half a circle, hooking his left foot around the other man's ankle and slamming his right knee into the other man's chest, knocking him to the ground.

The moment he landed, he pierced the other man's palm with his knife, covered his mouth with his other hand, pressed his forehead against the other man's, and whispered, "Shh. Don't make a sound."

On the open ground in front of the mine's office building, Li Mo drew fire from the front.

Ten meters to his right, Lu Xiao crouched behind an abandoned minecart, using his pistol to call out the names of the enemy's communications soldier and commander one by one. During a break to reload after firing a magazine, he continued counting over the comms: "Eleventh. Shen Zhuo, how many have you got?"

"Busy! No time to count!" Shen Zhuo's voice was accompanied by the dull thud of a dagger entering flesh.

"That means you don't have as many as me."

Wen Yan knelt behind cover, her pistol resting on the edge of the cover. She fired a shot that struck a mercenary who was aiming at Xie Ran in the shoulder. The mercenary winced in pain, released his grip, and the gun fell to the ground and discharged, the bullet hitting his own foot.

Wen Yan adjusted his glasses and said calmly, "A penetrating wound to the left shoulder, with a high probability of damage to the brachial plexus. This hand will never be able to hold a gun again."

"Dr. Wen, you're even giving a diagnosis after finishing off a shot?" Xie Ran changed a magazine and shouted back.

"Occupational disease".

The countdown is down to six minutes and forty-three seconds.

But people on the other side kept pouring in.

Even if the five members of Group A are highly skilled, their ammunition is being consumed at a visible rate.

Shen Zhuo had used up all the captured bullets and was maintaining firepower by picking up guns from the ground. Xie Ran's machine gun had only one ammunition belt left. Lu Xiao's pistol magazine was also empty.

"Captain," Lu Xiao's voice came through the comms, "at the current rate of ammunition depletion, we can probably hold out for another two minutes. The explosive countdown has a little over six minutes left—there's a gap in between where we might have to take hits without ammunition."

"Roger that." Li Mo's voice remained calm. "Prioritize survival. If you run out of ammunition, use a knife. If the knife breaks, use your fists. Drag it out until the explosives detonate."

Just then, Li Mo's gun jammed.

He didn't even have time to fix it; he threw down his pistol and rushed out from behind cover. The two mercenaries blocking his way saw him charging at them empty-handed and instinctively raised their rifle butts to smash him over the head.

Li Mo sidestepped the first gun butt, grabbed the man's wrist with his left hand and twisted it in the opposite direction; the sound of bones cracking rang out clearly between the gunshots. He snatched the gun from the man and smashed the butt of the second mercenary into his temple, knocking him unconscious. Then he picked up the rifle on the ground and continued charging forward.

His target was the French sergeant on the office building balcony.

The sergeant saw him too, and the expression on Scarface's face switched from fury to a sinister excitement.

He tossed the megaphone to his adjutant, cracked his neck, and then leaped off the balcony, his combat boots slamming into the concrete and creating two fissures.

"Enfin un vrai." (Finally, someone decent has arrived.)

The sergeant drew his saber from his waist, the blade reflecting a cold gleam under the searchlight.

Li Mo did not reply. He drew a dagger from his waist, the blade of which was a full third shorter than the sergeant's saber.

The two clashed head-on in the open space in front of the office building. The sergeant's swordsmanship was fierce and skillful, each strike carrying the practical experience accumulated on the battlefield over thirty years.

The first slash was a diagonal cut, the blade grazing Li Mo's chest and leaving a gash in his tactical vest. The second slash was a reverse parry, which Li Mo dodged to the side, the tip of the blade grazing his chin, leaving a shallow bloodstain. The third slash was a straight thrust, which Li Mo parried with his dagger; sparks flew at the point where the two blades met, and the dagger's blade chipped.

The sergeant's strength far exceeded Rimer's expectations. This Frenchman, who looked to be in his forties or fifties, had astonishing arm strength; each strike he made was as heavy as a hammer.

Li Mo's wound on his right arm was ruptured when he blocked the third blow; the waterproof tape burst open, and blood seeped out from under the bandage.

Wen Yan saw it. He raised his hand and shot down a mercenary who was trying to ambush Li Mo from behind. For the first time, his tone in the communication channel carried obvious emotion: "Captain, your right arm—!"

"fine."

Li Mo gritted his teeth and blocked the sergeant's fourth strike. But immediately afterward, the sergeant delivered a knee strike to his abdomen, causing him to groan and bend over.

The sergeant seized the opportunity and punched him in the shoulder with such force that his back slammed heavily against the mine cart behind him. Then two more men pounced on him from the side, one holding down his left shoulder and the other his right arm, pinning him firmly to the ground.

The sergeant looked down at Li Mo, who was pinned to the ground, the scar on his lip contorted into a grotesque arc under the searchlight. He sheathed his knife, drew his pistol from its holster, and slowly aimed the muzzle at Li Mo's forehead.

"Good night."

Countdown: 0 minutes and 58 seconds.

Everyone was pushed to the brink of despair in the same second.

The sergeant's finger rested on the trigger. His smile was particularly glaring in the bright light of the searchlight.

Just then—