In the southern part of the Sen Republic, the Loli River glead with a hazy silver ribbon under the moonlight.
Not far from the riverbank, the abandoned canning factory known as "Palm Heart" stood silent in the faint moonlight, like a beached giant beast's carcass left outside of ti.
The large storage tanks once used to store raw materials stood helplessly in the factory grounds like aging giants, their massive iron shells weathered and corroded by tropical mist and sun, rust like frozen old blood soaking deep into the warped tallic textures.
9:40 PM.
A black Citroën off-road vehicle, without any markings, glided ghost-like to the edge of a patch of wild grass about fifty ters from the rusty gate of the factory and silently ca to a stop.
The mont the engine was switched off, the last whisper of chanical sound was swallowed by the boundless silence.
The driver pushed open the car door, drew his gun, and stood at the front of the vehicle.
A bodyguard got out from the passenger seat, walked to the side of the road opposite to the driver, and stood guard as well.
The two rear doors opened silently.
Two more bodyguards stepped out, taking positions on the left and right.
Finally, Shire erged from the car.
His hair was slicked back ticulously, revealing a smooth, slightly sweat-sheened forehead.
His hawk-like gaze swept sharply across the surroundings, his pupils instinctively contracting due to the excessive deathly silence.
His fingers subconsciously traced the cold outline of the PAMAS G1 pistol tucked at his waist, a pang of unexplainable unease rising within him.
Henry's confident promises, along with the enticing draft regarding the future resource allocation of the Sen Republic, seed fragile now amid the overwhelming desolation laced with rust and decay, fragile as a waterlogged piece of paper.
"Playing tricks..."
Shire uttered a low murmur through clenched teeth, the sound so faint it was nearly drowned out by his own heartbeat, more like a form of self-reassurance.
He took a deep breath, letting the air, tinged with tallic saltiness and decayed plant scents, flood his lungs, which, instead of invigorating him, brought an icy, cloying sensation.
Adjusting the already neat collar of his short-sleeved shirt, Shire stepped towards the massive factory building that seed like the entrance to hell.
Beneath his feet were broken chunks of concrete and wildly spreading weeds, each step making a hair-raising rustling noise magnified in the vacuum-like stillness.
At the entrance, a twisted deford sheet tal door was ajar, leaving a dark gap only wide enough for one person. Inside was darkness as thick as ink.
After the bodyguards entered to check and ensure safety, nodding back at him, Shire took one last heavy breath of the rust-laden air, suppressing the turmoil in his throat, squeezed through sideways, and slipped inside.
The dense darkness imdiately engulfed him, heavily pressing down on his senses with an intensified moldy sll and tallic rust.
His vision temporarily failed, he hesitated whether to put on the night vision goggles.
"Clack!"
A sudden, sharp tal collision rang out high above!
Shire's muscles instantly tensed, his heart clutched by an icy hand!
Bright light!
A blinding beam of light slashed down from an overhead tal rack, locking him and his companions in its circle from head to toe without warning!
The bright light scorched his vision white, Shire instinctively raised his hand to shield himself, his other hand lightning fast, reaching for his waist.
"Don't move."
A voice erged.
Like a stone tossed into a deep pool, the voice was not loud, but it penetrated the ringing in his ears caused by the strong light, landing squarely on Shire's eardrums with undeniable authority.
The hand already on the grip of his gun froze.
In the darkness at the edge of the light beam, a figure slowly stepped out from the shadow of a rusted canning press machine, entering the light's edge.
In a deep gray combat uniform, enclosing a tall, agile physique.
Each step was steady, silent, rhythmic.
The light finally illuminated his face—chiseled features like carved with an axe, skin burnished a deep bronze from years under harsh sun and wind.
His eyes sunk deep under the brow ridge, squinting slightly under the strong light, yet his gaze was as calm as a lake, with no ripples, deeply unfathomable.
It was the very face Shire had seen countless tis in the confidential files at the DGSE, filed away under the cold "deceased (high probability)" summary—Song Heping!
Shire felt a chill rush from his tailbone up his spine to the back of his head, his scalp tingling.
The cold death verdict on the file now stood as a huge, absurd mockery.
He was alive!
Not just alive, but appearing before him with overwhelming dominance.
Shire's Adam's apple bobbed painfully, his hand shielding the light slowly lowered, his gun-gripping hand equally slowly withdrew from his clothing hem, falling to his side.
He straightened his back with effort, trying to keep his voice steady, even carrying a slight professional arrogance: "Mr. Song? It's truly... an unbelievable 'resurrection.' When Henry told you were alive, I almost thought he was recounting so crude Oriental myth."
He tugged at the corners of his mouth, his gaze sweeping around.
"Choosing this... industrially nostalgic spot for a et-up, are you planning to sell stockpiled, expired sardine cans? That's not a great business."
Song Heping ignored his sarcasm.
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