Back when Young Master Lei ruled the capital's nightlife, he draped himself in flashy fashion and oozed ostentatious swagger. But in the Hellfire Training Camp, those trappings were dead weight. Now, he craved simplicity: a short-barreled pistol, a military dagger, and a Swiss multi-tool knife. With these, he strode into the forest, light and unburdened. Lei Zhengyang knew well that in a treacherous place like this, weapons weren't the key to survival.
Jungle warfare was a beast of its own, and this primal forest was a league apart. Unpredictable dangers lurked at every turn.
After enduring months of grueling training, from the Poison Pit to every hellish environment thrown his way, Lei had learned one truth: survival depended on himself alone. No one was trustworthy—not even Instructor Two, who'd gifted him that so-called blessed bracelet.
Two numbers burned in his mind: 36 traps, 24 snipers.
He was the intruder here, while the snipers and traps lay in wait, ready to ensnare him. So, unlike his usual reckless self, he didn't charge in. Barely an hour into the forest, he set up camp, finding a clean fork in an ancient tree and promptly dozing off, upside down.
Aside from wolves or tigers, Lei didn't fear venomous creatures. His body had adapted to toxins in the Poison Pit—most poisons were now powerless against him.
Night fell, plunging the forest into an eerie, pitch-black silence, broken only by the occasional whisper of wind. The stillness was suffocating, but this was when Lei Zhengyang moved.
Traps were easier to spot in daylight, but snipers were deadliest then. At night, the hunters became the hunted. Traps were static—careful steps could avoid them. Snipers, though? One misstep, and a bullet would end him. No one was coming to save him.
After his blood-soaked rampage in the town, Lei's senses had sharpened to a razor's edge. He could feel danger in the air, dodging threats with split-second instincts he called his "sixth sense."
Instructor One had said killing or escaping counted as success. Unless absolutely necessary, Lei didn't want blood on his hands. He'd slip in quietly, slip out quietly. Killing brought a twisted thrill, but getting killed? That was a tragedy he'd rather avoid.
On the first night, he dismantled three deadly traps—not out of boredom, but because he'd triggered them. Two others he detected in advance and left untouched, waiting for some unlucky beast to take the fall.
The traps were simple yet cunning. They wouldn't kill outright but would cripple, stripping away your ability to fight. In this primal forest, that was a death sentence. Even without snipers, the wildlife would feast on you, leaving nothing—not even bones.
Disabling the traps wasn't just survival—it was a lesson. In his playboy days, Lei had lackeys and schemers to handle his problems. A single command, and it was done. Now, every move was his own, every decision a matter of life and death.
In the face of mortality, his mind worked overtime. Survival trumped pride—only a fool would choose death over cunning.
At dawn, a faint mist cloaked the forest. Sunlight barely pierced the canopy, casting dim rays. Exhausted from a night of evasion, Lei climbed a massive, hollowed-out tree, squeezing into a cramped fork. It was barely big enough for his body, but a safe place to rest was a luxury. Even standing, he'd call it a blessing.
He closed his eyes, shutting out all thought—a trick to recharge his stamina.
Then, a faint snap jolted him awake, like a twig breaking underfoot. His eyes shot open, breath held. His nose caught a human scent—no beast moved like that.
Peering through a pinhole in the bark, he spotted a sniper, clad head-to-toe in green, face painted to blend with the foliage. His form was nearly invisible, a ghost in the forest, clutching a loaded rifle. Focused on the surroundings, he didn't notice Lei, slipping into a nearby bush to exhale softly. He pulled a communicator from his belt. "Hunter Eagle, this is Hound Six. Searched Sector Nine—no sign of the rat. Repeat, no sign of the rat."
Lei heard every word, their voices separated by a mere three meters. He didn't dare move, but rage simmered inside. A rat? These bastards had no idea—a cornered rat could kill.
The sniper, still cautious, munched on a ration pack, eyes scanning relentlessly. But for a sniper, his movement was a fatal mistake. After a night of no trace of Lei, their impatience was showing—exactly what he needed.
Neither moved. For an entire day, they stayed locked in a silent standoff, inches apart. As night fell again, Lei's mind raced, weighing his options. The tree hollow was safe, but escaping would risk alerting the sniper.
Then, in the pitch-black, the sniper shifted, crawling to the tree's base and nestling into a hollow at its roots. He set his rifle down, leaning against the trunk to eat, his energy sapped from a day of stalking.
Lei's eyes glinted. He heard the sniper chewing, his hand gripping the dagger at his waist. As the sniper finished and moved to stand, Lei struck.
Like lightning, his dagger pierced through the pinhole, shattering the bark. The blade plunged into the sniper's neck, a clean, lethal strike. Blood sprayed, but no sound escaped—the wound silenced him. Lei didn't hesitate. He kicked through the brittle tree bark, yanking the dagger free.
The sniper clutched his throat, grasping at air, then slumped, dead.
In seconds, Lei looted the sniper's rations and vanished into the dark forest. Minutes later, four shadowy figures converged on the body. After a brief inspection, their leader spoke. "One strike, fatal. This guy's precise and ruthless. If you spot him, be on guard. He's fled to Sector Six, southwest. Alert the team—intercept and eliminate."
With a chorus of "Yes, sir," they melted into the night, leaving the corpse as a silent testament to the forest's unseen slaughter.
Killing that sniper exposed Lei's position. His path forward was now a gauntlet of ambushes. One sniper's bullet grazed his shoulder, leaving a bloody streak. Lei closed the distance and blew the man's head off in a brutal face-to-face clash.
But the final sniper wasn't so easy. A bullet slammed into his leg, missing the bone but leaving him in agony. To extract it, he endured half an hour of excruciating pain, using a lighter to heat his Swiss knife, digging out the slug, and wrapping the wound with gauze and crude herbs plucked along the way. No fire—too risky.
That half-hour was a gamble. With pursuers on his tail, a single misstep would've been his end. But luck held. When he opened his eyes, dawn hadn't broken. He'd survived.
The wound slowed him, and Instructor One's orders were clear: reach the red flag within a week. Two days and nights had already passed. Time was running out.