Andrew Clark was shocked, his face cold as he rushed outside. Night had already fallen; the vast mountains were shrouded in darkness, and torrential rain poured down, making it impossible to see anything. “Could it be thunder?” he wondered in confusion. Suddenly, another muffled explosion sounded in the distance. Though faint, it was distinct and didn’t sound like thunder. Andrew Clark quickly turned his head to look. In the rainy night’s darkness far away, a red flash flickered, then quickly disappeared into blackness.

“It was a grenade explosion.” Andrew Clark stared coldly into the depths of the stormy night, his eyes glinting where the grenade had gone off. Rain pelted his body as he stood there, face full of anger, then he suddenly turned and dashed back into the barracks.

It wouldn’t be long before someone from the outpost came to investigate. The scene couldn’t be disturbed, or clues would be destroyed. Andrew Clark grabbed some paper and a pen, wrote a few lines, placed the note somewhere obvious, weighed it down with a spent shell, and reached for a standard-issue Type 95 automatic rifle—only to find the gun had been damaged by bullets and was unusable.

Helpless, Andrew Clark set the gun aside. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed that the usual spot for storing firewood had been burned to ashes. The wind blowing in from the door scattered the dust, revealing a triangular bayonet. Andrew Clark knew this bayonet was the squad leader’s prized possession—the only one in the outpost, often played with by everyone.

Overjoyed, Andrew Clark picked up the triangular bayonet. Looking at the alloy-forged blade, he couldn’t help but think, “Could it be that the squad leader and the brothers are watching over me from above, wanting me to use this knife for revenge?” With this thought, Andrew Clark’s resolve for vengeance grew even stronger, and he quickly ran toward the armory.

Inside, the few remaining weapons and ammunition had all been looted—there wasn’t a single bullet or usable gun left. Andrew Clark remembered the deputy squad leader’s treasured Type 65 army dagger, said to be a special award from higher-ups and always carried on his person. He rushed to the kitchen again, carefully checking the charred remains of his fallen comrades, but found nothing. The dagger couldn’t have been burned; it must have been taken. At this, Andrew Clark was so furious he felt like his lungs would explode.

“Bastard!” Andrew Clark cursed aloud, his face grim as he ran back to the nearby barracks. He found a rucksack and packed it full with whatever food and clothing he could use, changed into clean clothes, put on a raincoat, grabbed the triangular bayonet and a military flashlight, slung the rucksack over his back, and walked out of the barracks.

“Boom!” A clap of thunder sounded, the rain grew even heavier, and the cold wind howled, adding a chilling, murderous atmosphere to the desolate mountains. The endless darkness was terrifying, as if some ancient beast could devour everything.

Andrew Clark’s somewhat youthful face became resolute. Though he had never experienced real battle, never truly killed anyone, and couldn’t even shoot straight, Andrew Clark had an unyielding heart and blood boiling with passion. For the sake of avenging his brothers, Andrew Clark was ready to risk everything.

On the square not far from the door, Mark snorted impatiently, nudging the approaching Andrew Clark with his head and pawing at the ground, clearly sensing something as well. Andrew Clark gently stroked Mark’s neck, drew a machete from the cart, and said firmly, with a hint of regret, “Mark, I can’t make you a wolf-skin vest now. The brothers are still watching me from above—I have to go. Don’t try to stop me. You should find somewhere to shelter from the rain. Tomorrow, the higher-ups will send people to check things out here. It’s time for you to retire. Take care of yourself.” With that, he strode resolutely toward the direction of the explosion, his determined steps splashing through the rain, as if his brothers were walking with him, blessing him, bidding him farewell…

Having grown up as a hunter in the forest, Andrew Clark felt an inexplicable familiarity and closeness to the woods. His wilderness survival skills weren’t bad, and after joining the army, his physical fitness had improved even more. In the pouring rain, Andrew Clark moved quickly, almost at a jog, gripping the machete tightly. Rainwater streamed down the handle. A bolt of lightning split the night sky, illuminating Andrew Clark’s resolute face. The machete flashed coldly, as if reflecting the anger in its owner’s heart.

With no more explosions to guide him, Andrew Clark relied entirely on his own judgment to march quickly. The rain would wash away all traces, making it impossible to find any clues. This pursuit seemed a bit blind, but Andrew Clark had no regrets. Doing nothing would make him feel suffocated. Thinking of his brutally slain brothers, his heart felt like it would burst, and his whole body was filled with strength.

After more than two hours of running, Andrew Clark was out of breath, his stamina severely depleted. He had to slow down and continue on foot. Unknowingly, he came to a hillside and saw two spent shells on the ground. Andrew Clark quickly swept the area with his military flashlight but found no suspicious figures. He hurried over, picked up the shells, and confirmed they were what he thought, but couldn’t glean any clues from them.

“Could it be that domestic special forces have caught up?” Andrew Clark guessed, his spirits lifting and his blood surging. As a soldier, Andrew Clark had always aspired to join the special forces, but unfortunately, after beating up a well-connected recruit in boot camp, he was sent to a border outpost. In this life, it would be hard.

Thinking that special forces might be in pursuit and that there was hope for revenge, Andrew Clark’s spirits soared. He carefully observed the terrain, chose a direction based on his childhood hunting instincts, and charged ahead. Before long, Andrew Clark saw some grenade fragments lying quietly on the ground, silently telling the story of what had happened here.