Flip the table and divide the family property! Take his wife and daughter into the mountains and eat

Belikov pressed himself tightly against the shadows behind the door frame, his lungs heaving violently, each breath feeling like swallowing a knife.

That bullet just grazed his scalp.

In that instant, he didn't even have time to be afraid; he only felt a chill on his scalp and sweat pouring down his back.

"Belikov...save me...my shoulder..."

Nikolai was convulsing on the snow a few meters away, his right hand digging desperately into the frozen mud, leaving a dark red drag mark.

His shoulder was completely rotten, with white bone fragments stuck outside the granulation tissue, and blood steaming in the extreme cold.

Belikov stared at Nikolai's outstretched hand, his eyelids twitching wildly.

He gritted his teeth, ultimately unable to resist the last vestiges of loyalty to his comrades. He gripped the doorframe tightly with his right hand and suddenly reached out with his left, trying to grab Nikolai's collar and drag him back.

"Bang!"

A second gunshot rang out suddenly.

This shot was even faster than the last; the bullet, with a sharp whistling sound as it tore through the air, pierced precisely through Belikov's outstretched left palm.

The immense kinetic energy instantly blasted a bloody hole in the back of his hand, sending bone fragments and mangled flesh flying through the air.

"ah--!"

Belikov let out a piercing scream, abruptly pulled his hand back, and slammed his entire body against the wooden wall behind him as if all his strength had been drained.

He gripped his badly bruised left hand tightly, cold sweat pouring down his forehead, and a trapped beast's roar escaped his throat:

"That bastard! That damned bastard!"

"Belikov!"

Gerasimov, watching from the corner, was terrified and instinctively wanted to rush over.

"Don't move!"

Belikov jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot and bulging. He stared intently at Gerasimov, his voice hoarse and distorted: "Stay there! Anyone who moves dies! He's waiting for us to show our faces!"

The excruciating pain in my left hand felt like a drill drilling into the bone, and blood gushed out in large gushes from between my fingers.

Belikov knew he would die if he continued to bleed like this. His fleshy face was twisted and deformed from the pain, making him look particularly ferocious.

With trembling right hand, he pulled a bullet from his pocket, bit the bullet open with his teeth, and poured all the propellant inside onto the bloody hole in his palm.

Gunpowder and blood were mixed together, forming a sticky mess.

Belikov, panting heavily, pulled a match from his pocket, his right hand trembling as he struck one, blew on it with a "whoosh," and lit it directly on the wound on his left hand.

"boom!"

A burst of blue-white flame suddenly erupted in the darkness, accompanied by a nauseating smell of burning.

Belikov shuddered violently, his teeth grinding so hard they seemed about to shatter.

When the smoke dissipated, the gushing blood was actually sealed by the charred flesh.

He desperately tried to burrow into the shadows, wishing he could embed his entire body into the wooden wall.

He's a veteran, so he knows all too well the psychological pressure that comes with it.

The enemy was lurking in the shadows, wielding iron fire that could tear them to pieces at any moment, and they couldn't even see which mountain they were on.

"Ivanov!"

Belikov roared at the snow pit, his voice filled with desperate rage, "Tell your men to stop! I'll give you the medicine! I'll give you back the gold! I don't want the road anymore! Tell your men to stop!"

There was no response from the snow pit, only the cold wind swirling snowflakes in the low air.

Belikov was frantic; he knew Ivanov was lurking there watching the show.

He suddenly grabbed the heavy bag of gold at his feet and threw it violently off the ground.

The sack rolled a few times on the snow and came to rest right next to Nikolai's pool of blood, reflecting a cold and ironic light in the dim kerosene lamplight.

"Take the gold! Get out! Take your men and get out of my territory!"

Deep in the woods.

Zhao Shanhe coldly stared through the high-powered scope at the bag of gold that had been discarded like trash.

His face remained completely expressionless, not even his pupils dilated or contracted.

He pulled the bolt again.

"Click".

The faint metallic clanging sound was absorbed by the snow in the forest.

Zhao Shanhe readjusted his breathing and gently placed his index finger on the trigger.

He remembered the angle at which Belikov had just shrunk in.

"Bang!"

Zhao Shanhe kept a steady hand on that shot.

The bullet pierced the rotten wooden planks that had become somewhat brittle due to years of dampness instantly, without a violent explosion, only a muffled "thud".

After piercing the wooden wall, the bullet continued its momentum, grazing the back of Belikov's scalp and embedding itself firmly in the crossbeam of the liquor cabinet behind him, leaving a trail of fine wood chips that pierced Belikov's neck like needles.

"hiss--"

Belikov lunged forward, landing face down on the cold, muddy ground, clutching his head tightly with both hands.

He felt a burning sensation on the back of his head, the scorching heat from the bullet whizzing through the air.

"He can see us... Belikov! He must have X-ray vision! He's staring right at my forehead!"

Gerasimov has completely lost control.

He huddled against the wall, his short shotgun trembling like withered grass in the wind. His eyes rolled upwards in extreme fear, and he began to mutter incoherently, "We're going to die... Nikolai is dead, I'm next... I need to get out! I can't take it anymore!"

As he howled, he actually tried to stand up and rush out.

"Snapped!"

A sharp crack rang out, jarringly loud in the deathly silent room.

Belikov, who was lying on the ground, suddenly rolled over and sat up. His good right hand brought a gust of wind and slapped Gerasimov hard across the face.

The slap was so powerful that it forced Gerasimov's scream back into his stomach, sending him crashing into the wall. Half of his face instantly swelled up like a steamed bun.

"Shut up!"

Belikov lowered his voice, his words broken by pain and rage, like a cornered beast grinding its teeth, "If you want to die, don't drag me down with you! Stay put and don't show your face!"

Gerasimov was stunned by the slap. He covered his face and stared blankly at Belikov in front of him.

Belikov's badly bruised left hand was charred black and emitted a pungent burnt smell, but he didn't even glance at it.

He gripped the Mosin-Nagant rifle tightly with his right hand, his eyes filled with a sinister, poisonous glint as he stared intently at the pierced wooden wall.

"He can't see us."

Belikov took a deep breath, forcing himself to regain his composure amidst the excruciating pain. His voice was icy cold, devoid of any warmth. "If he could really see, that bullet should have gone straight into the back of my head, instead of just grazing my skin."

He bit his collar with his teeth, ripped it hard, and wrapped the strip of cloth around his still bleeding left hand, but his right hand never left the bolt.

"He's guessing. He's firing blindly based on the position he just memorized."

"A guess? So what if it was a guess?!"

Gerasimov completely broke down. He huddled in the corner, his voice twisted with sobs, pointing at the broken piece of wood and Nikolai's body in the snow. "Nikolai is dying! Your hand is useless! Belikov, all we have are these two broken guns, we can't even find where the enemy is, how are we supposed to survive? We're finished... We're all going to die here today and feed the wolves!"

"Snapped!"

Belikov slapped Gerasimov again, sending him crashing into the wine rack and smashing a bunch of empty bottles to pieces.

"Shut up, Gerasimov! You listen to me!"

Belikov lowered his voice, like a ravenous tiger, his eyes flashing with ferocity in the shadows.

He wiped the blood from his face, his heavy breaths exhaling into the cold air.

"It's your business if you want to die here. Think about those big-assed women in Vladivostok, think about the vodka in Khabarovsk, I haven't lived enough yet! We've been in there for three years, we're practically rusting from the bone, and after just one day out, you want to die in this freezing cold, feeding the wolves?"

Gerasimov's mouth bled from the slap, but his mind finally cleared a bit.

He gripped his short shotgun tightly, his voice trembling uncontrollably: "Then...what can we do? That bastard is hiding in the shadows, we don't even dare to show our faces, how are we supposed to survive?"

"Found Ivanov."

He looked around, his gaze passing through the hole created by the gunshot, and stared intently at the snow pit outside. "As soon as the shot rang out, that old bastard crawled into the pit. If we can catch him and use him as a shield, we'll have a chance to survive."