The night on the southwest border is pure black.
There is no moon, even the stars are hidden in the clouds. It was eerily quiet in the jungle, except for a few insects that were chirping here and there. Ye Zhiqiu was lying behind the aerial roots of a large banyan tree, covered in mud and rotten leaves. He had not moved for six hours.
The feeling of mud on my face was unpleasant, sticky, and mixed with the rancid smell of rotten leaves. Several mosquitoes circled around his head, looking for an opportunity to bite him at the base of his neck. Most people would have slapped him earlier, but Ye Zhiqiu didn't even blink. He didn't even try to chase them away, he just let the mosquitoes pierce their mouths into the flesh, sucking blood until their stomachs became round.
Pain? Itch? I've already gotten used to it.
Twelve years have passed, from the young boy in the recruit company who secretly wiped away his tears at night to the border sharp knife nicknamed "The King of Hell". There are thirty-seven scars, large and small, on his body, and each one tells a story. Some stories can be told, and some stories will rot in your stomach until you die.
A rustling sound of electricity suddenly came from the headset.
