Chapter 1753 - 1360: Winner Takes All

The news of Barzani's suicide, like a final catalyst, completely destroyed the remaining will of the rebels to resist.

The first to hear the news was a rebel communications soldier.

He was stationed in front of a broken radio, when suddenly the chaotic shouts from the command center came through his headset:

"The General is dead... The General committed suicide!"

This news spread across the battlefield like a plague.

As the deserters ran, they shouted, and the government army's psychological warfare unit broadcast over drone loudspeakers:

"Barzani is dead, lay down your weapons, stop the futile resistance!"

The rebel forces, already on the verge of collapse, began to disintegrate in units.

"Barzani is dead!"

"The General committed suicide!"

"Surrender! We surrender! Don't shoot!"

These cries rang out across the battlefield.

Some people threw their guns out from cover and raised their hands; some tore the white lining from their shirts and tied it to branches, frantically waving them; experienced sergeants made simple white flags from first aid bandages and cautiously poked them out from the trench edge.

Quickly, some officers joined the ranks of those surrendering, and some tried to escape with their trusted men, but were soon forced back by the encircling situation.

Armed pickups from the Abu You Brigade blocked all the main roads, while Samir's main forces completed an impenetrable encirclement on the flanks.

The gunfire at Nasur Fortress gradually thinned out, and finally stopped altogether.

A bizarre silence descended on the battlefield, leaving only the sound of the wind.

Little Masoud and Song Heping, under the escort of the guard squad, walked out of the fortress command post.

The scene before them was horrifying; the outer defenses of the fortress had been plowed over by artillery shells, the fortifications were in ruins, and the ground was pocked with craters, some as deep as two meters, filled with muddy blood.

Soldiers were cleaning up the battlefield, attending to the wounded, and gathering prisoners.

Medics weaved between friendly and enemy wounded, prioritizing critical cases, but medicinal resources were clearly inadequate, as groans of pain filled the air.

Major Faisal hobbled over, with a gash on his right thigh that was still bleeding despite a simple bandage.

He saluted Little Masoud: "Reporting to the Commander, the 'Storm' battalion has completed the interception mission. Our battalion suffered forty-one fatalities, sixty-seven seriously injured, minor injuries not recorded. Estimated enemy casualties exceeded three hundred, about one hundred and fifty prisoners are currently detained, and the rest of the enemy forces have largely dispersed."

Little Masoud opened his mouth, but couldn't say anything.

In the end, he simply returned the salute earnestly: "You've worked hard, Major. You... all of you are heroes."

Thousands of rebel prisoners were gathered in several relatively flat open areas.

They lined up in disordered queues, dejected, some still wounded with blood seeping through their bandages.

The government army soldiers stood guard with guns, but Song Heping's orders were clear: no abuse of prisoners.

The containment process was orderly and efficient.

The prisoners were first required to surrender all weapons and explosives, and then were categorized and registered by officers, sergeants, and soldiers.

Each person's name, original unit number, and rank were recorded.

Next was a preliminary medical check-up, with seriously injured sent to the field hospital first, and minor injuries treated on the spot.

Late that night, Baghdad Green Zone, US Military Hospital.

Old Masoud lay in a special ward, connected to monitoring equipment.

The indicator light on the encrypted satellite phone at his bedside lit up; it was a call from Tor Khan at the front line. The old man laboriously reached for the receiver.

"Mr. President, how is your health?"

Tor Khan's voice was full of concern.

"Not dead yet."

Old Masoud's voice was weak but clear.

"Let's talk business."

"The battlefield cleanup is essentially complete. A total of ten thousand four hundred and twenty-three prisoners, including three hundred and forty-seven officers. The inventory of seized items has been preliminarily compiled."

Tor Khan paused, then continued, "The screening team has already started working, and it seems that over seventy percent of the common soldiers were coerced or blindly followed. They expressed willingness to accept the government's arrangements."

Old Masoud closed his eyes and took a deep breath: "What about Song Heping?"

"He returned to Hulmatu, didn't stay here, left everything to Little Masoud, and before he left, he said this was an internal matter of the Kurds, he wouldn't interfere. But he reminded me to convey his words to you, saying don't forget to fulfill your promises."

"As expected." Old Masoud smiled wryly: "After victory, it's time to divide the spoils."

After hanging up Tor Khan's call, Old Masoud stared at the ceiling for a long time.

The monitor emitted its regular beeping, and the smell of disinfectant permeated the ward.

Outside the window, the searchlights of the Green Zone pierced the night sky, armored vehicles patrolled the streets—this was the safest place in Iraq, yet also the most surreal.

He recalled the days two decades ago fighting alongside Barzani.

Back then, Barzani was young and idealistic, believing in establishing a free and prosperous Kurdistan.

When did it start to change?

Was it power?

Was it interests?

Or the lure of external forces?

However, none of it seemed to matter anymore.

Because it was all over.

Closing his eyes to sort through his emotions, Old Masoud picked up the phone and dialed Song Heping's number.

When the call connected, there was the sound of wind, vehicles, and distant voices in the background.

It seemed Song Heping was still on his way back to Hulmatu, not yet there.

"Mr. President, you should be resting."

Song Heping's voice still carried its familiar calm.

"Some things can't wait."

Old Masoud sat up straight: "Song, you did it. Thank you."