Early next morning, at Checkpoint 4, the sun has just risen.
Time seemed to have frozen, carrying an inescapable aura of death.
Song Heping rode in a convoy of three reinforced Humvees, rapidly approaching in tactical formation.
The vehicles rolled over soil repeatedly ploughed loose by dense shrapnel.
The tires occasionally made a bone-chilling crunching sound, rolling over metal fragments, weapon parts, and other unidentifiable charred hard objects.
A twisted metal strip, vaguely recognizable as an AK-47 barrel, was pressed by tire, clanged against the car door, and fell back into the dust.
The closer to Checkpoint 4, the stronger the pungent smell in the air became.
At first, it was the acrid smoke from high-explosive ammunition and propellant that hadn't fully dissipated, irritating the nasal mucous membranes; then it was the greasy stench of diesel burning from punctured fuel tanks.
Finally, a dense, overwhelming stench of sweet blood and rot.
This smell was familiar to Song Heping.
It was the smell of scorched organic matter, splattered bodily fluids, and fresh blood vaporized in high heat.
Song Heping rolled down the passenger window a bit, allowing the familiar and nauseating battlefield air to flow more directly into his lungs.
As far as the eye could see, it was desolation.
The checkpoint, originally built relying on a relatively solid abandoned earthen courtyard, was nearly erased except for the main building at this moment.
Incomplete earthen walls seemed like wounds torn open by a giant beast's claws, exposing twisted steel bars in the huge gashes.
The circular defense works built with sandbags mostly collapsed. Several Humvees belonging to Thunder Defense and several Technical pickups mounted with M2HB heavy machine guns became twisted, deformed metal.
What truly challenged human sensory limits were the "remnants" left by war.
On the empty field outside the checkpoint and on both sides of the dirt road leading here, lay numerous human remains in various postures.
Some corpses were relatively intact, wearing dirty Arabic robes or mottled camouflage, but more were torn to pieces by brutal shockwaves and prefabricated fragments.
Severed limbs, splattered internal organs, even half faces with hair and skin, intertwined with blasted AK series rifles, shattered ammo vests, and charred clothing pieces, painting an abstract picture indescribable with words on the yellow sand.
Song Heping roughly estimated, judging by the "remnants" here, the 1515 Armed lost at least over three hundred people.
Samir's militia moved emotionlessly amongst them, using their feet to kick aside prone bodies, checking for any survivors, occasionally calmly administering a final shot with their rifles.
The militia also efficiently collected any valuable items from the bodies—
Well-kept weapons, unused ammunition, even a pair of fairly sturdy boots.
All this proceeded methodically, with an almost numb efficiency.
Song Heping's convoy stopped near the only remaining intact entrance to the checkpoint.
He pushed open the car door, his heavy combat boots stepping onto the ground mixed with dark red blood, sand, and oil, making a soft squelching sound.
Samir hurriedly came around from a pile of rubble, barely containing his excitement: "Boss! You're here!"
"Look! These 1515 bastards left at least over three hundred corpses!"
He waved his arms, pointing towards the terrifying array of body remnants.
Song Heping nodded slightly, his gaze calmly sweeping across the entire battlefield, assessing the damage, finally landing on Samir's face.
"Well done, Samir. By the way, how's the damage to your men?" His voice was steady, conveying little emotion.
"Last night, when we arrived, we fought with the 1515 Armed for about half an hour, then they fled. We had seven wounded, two killed."
Song Heping reached out to pat his dust-covered shoulder, affirmatively saying:
"Compensation and rewards for the fallen should be at the highest standards, discuss with Jiang Feng later for prompt settlement to their families."
After speaking, his gaze went past Samir, towards the deeper part of the checkpoint, where another group of people incongruous with the surroundings gathered, wearing unified Multicam desert camouflage, yet looking equally disheveled.
"What about Sanders and his men?"
Song Heping's voice lowered somewhat.
Samir replied with a lower voice, containing a hint of schadenfreude:
"Sanders' men lost six, ten wounded, four critically. Whether they can pull through is uncertain. Even those alive are injured, looking dusty and desperate, with equipment nearly all lost."
Song Heping said nothing further, only lightly uttered "Hmm," and then stepped towards that area.
Surrounding militia, upon seeing him, stopped their activities, nodded slightly or gazed at him in awe, automatically clearing a path.
Sanders and his remaining Thunder Defense Mercenaries were gathered in a corner next to the main building.
Most bore injuries, with makeshift bandages wrapped around foreheads, arms, or legs, with oozing blood turning dark brown under the sand's cover.
On each mercenary's face, besides exhaustion, was an uncontainable anger from being deceived and betrayed.
Their valuable equipment—AN/PVS series night vision devices, AN/PRC series communication radios, long-range infrared surveillance systems (TWS), personal radar, high-power generators, etc., have mostly turned into twisted scrap metal and scattered parts under precise artillery fire.
Sanders stands at the front of the crowd, a bloody cut from high-speed shrapnel across his face, its edges curling and already coagulating black.
Seeing Song Heping approach, his eyes filled with utmost complexity, faintly exuding anger.
Song Heping stopped in front of Sanders, his face instantly switching to a look of sorrow and concern, with slightly furrowed brows and a voice carrying the perfect blend of heaviness and urgency:
"Mr. Sanders! I'm relieved to see you're okay! How's the situation? The wounded must be treated immediately, there's not a moment to delay!"