Chapter 1624 - 1300: The Smell of Gunpowder Before Dawn

Titrick, Alliance Army forward assembly area, 4:20 a.m.

The temperature is only nine degrees Celsius.

The cold night of the desert contrasts sharply with the scorching heat of the day, and the breath of the soldiers condenses into white mist in front of the night vision goggles.

No one speaks, only the faint sounds of equipment clashing and the occasional muffled cough.

This is a half-collapsed warehouse ruin, 800 meters from the target auto repair shop zone, and 1,200 meters from the school building complex.

The walls still have bullet holes and cracks caused by explosions, with rubble and rusty metal fragments scattered on the ground.

This is the departure point for Alpha Company and Bravo Company.

"Final equipment check."

The voice comes from the depths of the warehouse, deep and clear.

The speaker is the Alpha Company commander, nicknamed "Old Man."

The soldiers begin to move, methodically touching each critical point on their bodies, following muscle memories formed from thousands of drills.

Night vision goggles - battery full, mount stable, eyepiece clean.

Weapons - carbine rifle, chamber clean, gas tube clear, magazine loaded with thirty rounds of 5.56mm ammunition, six spare magazines.

Bulletproof vest - level III bullet-proof plate in place, side protection plates installed, first aid kit, hemostatic belt, magazine pouch in correct positions.

Communication equipment - P25 encrypted radio, earbud in ear, microphone close to the mouth, battery charge above ninety percent.

Grenade launcher, explosive charges, smoke bomb, flashbang, binocular night vision, laser designator...

Every piece of equipment is checked repeatedly to ensure it can function immediately when needed.

"Old Man" walks to the front of the line, his footsteps echo in the empty warehouse. The night vision goggles make his eyes glow faintly green in the darkness, sweeping across each soldier's face.

"Listen up,"

His voice is not loud, but each word hits the air like a chisel, "We only have one chance. After the artillery preparation starts, the convoy advances at full speed. Upon reaching the target zone, disembark immediately and deploy according to the predetermined formation."

He raises his hand, sketching a simple diagram in the air.

"Group A, enter from the east entrance, clear the first floor and basement. Group B, west entrance, responsible for the second and third floors. Group C, perimeter guard, suppress any enemy attempts to reinforce or break out. Group D, demolition team, locate critical load-bearing structures and plant explosives. Move fast, move hard, move accurately."

A mercenary raises his hand: "What if we encounter civilians?"

The warehouse falls silent for a moment.

"This area was evacuated three days ago."

"Old Man's" voice turns cold, "If there are still people inside, there are only two possibilities - hostages or armed militants disguised as civilians. Regardless of which..."

At the end, he doesn't finish the sentence, but everyone understands.

War has its own rules.

In a place like Titrick, mercy often means death.

"The window for action is 30 minutes," Old Man continues, "After 30 minutes, regardless of completion, we must withdraw. The artillery will start extending fire after 30 minutes, covering the perimeter of the target area. If anyone is still inside by then..."

He pauses: "They will never come out."

No one speaks.

The soldiers silently digest this information.

Thirty minutes, 1,800 seconds.

During this time, they must storm into a completely unfamiliar building, face an unknown number of enemies, complete a series of tasks including search, clearance, and demolition, and then retreat alive.

"Any other questions?"

A hulking mercenary speaks up, he's the leader of Group B, codenamed "Big Bear": "What if there are really traps inside? I mean...large-scale explosive traps."

This question hits the nail on the head for everyone.

"Old Man" is silent for a few seconds.

From the depths of the warehouse, a mouse scurries over the rubble, making rustling noises.

"Then rely on your eyes and ears," he finally says, "If you notice something unusual - wiring that's too dense, modifications to the walls, an area that's oddly clean or messy - report immediately, retreat immediately. Our lives are worth more than that broken building."

He surveys the room: "But let me remind you, the retreat order can only be given by me. Unauthorized retreat will be handled according to battlefield discipline. Understand?"

"Understood, sir!" A low response echoes in the warehouse.

Bravo Company is conducting a similar briefing.

Their target is that pile of dilapidated school buildings, a more complex mission - a four-story main teaching building, two subsidiary buildings, plus a playground and walls.

The building structure is more complex, with more potential hiding spots, and greater clearance difficulty.

"Remember," Bravo Company commander "Butcher" points at the map, "The original design of the school was to accommodate a large number of people. This means many rooms, long corridors, and numerous blind spots. Behind every door, around every corner, someone might be hiding."

He pulls out a photo, a graduation photo of the school before the war.

Hundreds of children and teachers stand in front of the school building, smiling brightly.

"But now, only enemies remain inside." 'Butcher' tears the photo, "Do not hesitate, do not pity. The moment you hesitate could be your last breath."

Two companies, 160 elite mercenaries, have all completed their final preparations.

They sit on the rubble, lean against the wall, or lie on the ground directly, trying to snatch a few minutes of rest before the operation.

Some check photos of their families, some pray silently, some repeatedly polish their already gleaming guns. More of them just close their eyes, regulate their breathing, and slowly bring down their heart rates.

The next few hours will decide the survival of many - including their own.

Outside the warehouse, the night deepens.

Stars shimmer in the clear sky, and the air after the sandstorm is so clean that the Milky Way is visible.

In the distance, the city profile of Titrick faintly appears in the darkness.

And underground in the city, another group is also preparing.

Titrick, this once northwest stronghold of Illiguo.

Twelve meters underground in the city, inside a large tunnel.

The air is damp and murky, mixed with the smell of sewage, mold, and human sweat.

Dim emergency lights hang from the arched concrete ceiling, casting flickering shadows.

Dark marks from years of seepage line the walls, resembling twisted faces.

Eight hundred people kneel in formation on the ground.

They are arranged in twenty columns, each with forty people, stretching from one end of the tunnel to the darkness at the other.

Everyone is dressed in black combat uniforms, with black headscarves wrapped around their heads, faces covered with masks, only their eyes visible.

Those eyes flicker with a near-fanatical light in the dimness.

Among them are young people, likely not even twenty years old.

There are also old men, with grizzled beards.

The only commonality is that these fervent, extreme followers are all ready for death.

Ahmed stands on a platform temporarily built with sandbags and wood.

He wears the same black combat uniform as the others, but his head is uncovered, his face fully exposed.

"My brothers." His voice echoed through the tunnel, carrying the unique reverberation of the underground space, "Dawn is about to arrive. And today's dawn will be unlike any other day before."

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over the rows of kneeling figures.

"Three days ago, the heretics thought they could easily crush us. They have armored cars, helicopters, and satellites watching our every move. They declared that within three days, at most, Titrick would fall."

A low hum arises among the crowd, that is suppressed anger.

"But now?" Ahmed raised his voice, "Four days have passed, and they are still outside the city! Their elite troops are dead, their allies have fled, their commanders hide tens of kilometers away, only daring to use drones to watch us!"

"Allah is great!" someone shouted.

Immediately, more shouts burst forth, merging into a deep wave rolling through the tunnel.

Ahmed raised his hand, and the voices gradually quieted.

"Today, I am certain they will launch a final attack." He pointed north, although there was only a concrete wall, "They will surely attack two places—the auto repair shop and the school. They will deploy their finest soldiers, the most advanced equipment. They will think that taking these two places will break our line of defense."

He laughed, and in the pale light of the emergency lamps, that smile appeared eerie and ghastly.

"But they don't know, these two places are gifts we've intentionally left for them."

He jumped off the platform and walked to a young warrior in the first row.

The young man raised his head, flames burning in his eyes.

"What's your name, my child?"

"Zabeer, commander! From Mosul!"

"Zabeer." Ahmed placed a hand on his shoulder, "Are you afraid?"

"No fear! I long for martyrdom!"

Ahmed nodded and moved to the next one, a grizzled old soldier.

"What about you, Jafali?"

"I've lived fifty years, commander. Today, I will live for eternity."

One by one, Ahmed walked past the first few people in each row, asking, encouraging, confirming.

This wasn't formalism, this was a necessary process—to ensure everyone's will was resolute enough, ensuring at the crucial moment, no one would falter.

Finally, he returned to the platform.

"Listen, my brothers. When the explosions occur, when the heretic soldiers rush into the buildings, you don't need to act immediately. Wait, wait patiently. Let them go deeper, let them think victory is within reach."

He pulled a dagger from his waist and swung it forcefully in the air, the blade gleamed coldly under the lights.

"Then, when the signal is given—three consecutive whistle blows—you will surge from every exit. From the basement, from the mezzanine, from adjacent buildings, from sewer outlets. Surround them, divide them, annihilate them."

He forcefully stabbed the dagger into the wooden plank of the platform, the blade sinking halfway.

"No prisoners, no mercy. They came to our land, killed our compatriots, desecrated our beliefs. Today, we will cleanse this land with their blood."

The tunnel was frighteningly silent. Eight hundred pairs of eyes stared at Ahmed, at that dagger.

"The gates of Heaven have already opened." Ahmed's voice dropped, but every word was like a nail, "The Prophet and the martyrs are waiting. Today, either we drive the heretics out of Allah's land, or we enter paradise as martyrs, enjoying eternal grace."

He took a deep breath and then roared with all his strength:

"Whichever outcome—it's victory!"

"Allah is great!!!"

Eight hundred throats roared simultaneously.

The sound erupted in the tunnel.

Ahmed closed his eyes, letting the sound engulf him.

The sound gradually died down.

Ahmed opened his eyes and raised the dagger high.

"Team captains, conduct final equipment checks. Blast group, confirm detonation devices. Sniper group, enter preset positions. Mobile group, vehicles warm up."

Orders were issued one by one, and the crowd began to move orderly.

Eight hundred people divided into twenty squads, each squad with forty people, each had its own mission, each had a target area.

After the explosions, they will storm out simultaneously from twenty different exits, like twenty daggers thrust into the enemy's vital spots.

Ahmed watched them disappear into various branches of the tunnel, leaving only him and a few close guards.

"Commander," a guard said softly, "there's another message from Mosul, asking if more support is needed."

"Tell them," Ahmed looked into the depths of the tunnel, "we need nothing. Just remember—today, in Titrick, we will write new history."