On the southwest border, the jungle in the rainy season is like a steamer, making people breathless.
The rain dripped down from the gaps in the leaves, hitting Qin Hanyi's face, mixed with mud and blood, and dripped down his chin. He was lying in a crater, his right hand still holding the empty 95-style pistol, his left hand pressing the wound on his waist, blood gushing out from between his fingers, and it couldn't be stopped.
It's quiet around here.
It's so quiet.
