He slamd the table with force, making the crystal ashtray on it jump, "Lumar! My Defense Army Chief Commander! He has six fully equipped armored brigades in his hands! The finest T-72 tanks! They are rushing back at full speed! It won't be long before their tracks crush your ragtag crowd!"
His chest heaved violently, as if the massive roar had drained his last bit of energy, leaving only futile panting.
"By then, Song Heping, you'll be on your knees before begging for rcy! And you—"
His bloodshot eyes stared fixedly at Song Heping, lifting a finger towards the man he wished he could tear into pieces.
"And your dirty rcenaries, not one will survive!"
Song Heping listened quietly, his face without any ripple, only the corners of his mouth slightly turned downward to form a cold and mocking arc.
In his eyes, there was no anger, no urgency, only an almost pitying calmness.
"Lumar's armored brigade?"
Song Heping's voice remained calm, even carrying a hint of peculiar patience, as if explaining an obvious truth to a stubborn child.
He slowly took a folded photograph from the pocket of his tactical vest, his movent carrying a slow ceremonial air.
With two fingers pinching a corner of the photo, his arm crossed the table, gently pushing it in front of Du Er.
The photo's material was cold and hard, the edges neatly cut.
The image was an aerial view, a vast desert edge, dull yellow hues occupied most of the view.
The eye-catching part was the center of the picture, where an iron torrent was tightly choked along a simple road extending on a dried riverbed.
Over a dozen T-72 main battle tanks painted in desert camouflage and even more infantry fighting vehicles and armored personnel carriers lay haphazardly in the narrow valley like toys thrown aside by a giant hand.
A few leading tanks were clearly destroyed, turrets askew, bodies emitting billowing black smoke that seed to carry a burnt sll in the still photo.
Along the photo's edges, several low hills guarding strategic points clearly showed completed anti-tank positions, gun barrels under camouflage nets ominously pointed at the massive convoy below.
The whole picture conveyed a suffocating despair—a mighty force trapped in a cage, deadly fangs looming overhead.
"This is the photo data sent back by my drone unit three hours ago, a real-ti shot over the Omar Gan River Valley."
Song Heping's voice had no fluctuations, like stating a fact irrelevant to him.
"Your six armored brigades, or rather, the six armored brigades commanded by Minister Lumar, are currently blocked in the Omar Gan River Valley by the eighth and tenth brigade's mobile anti-tank battalions controlled by the Isis family. They are stuck."
He paused, his gaze like a cold probe piercing into Du Er's rapidly contracting pupils, "Counting on them? Mr. President, better hope for a miracle."
Du Er stared at the photo intensely, his eyeballs seemingly ready to bulge out from their sockets.
He suddenly reached out a trembling hand, grabbed the photo tightly, held it close to his face, nose nearly touching the cold paper.
Greedily, madly, he scanned every detail of the photo, every plu of burning black smoke, every silhouette of the disabled tanks, every camouflage pattern of the anti-tank gun positions on the ridges.
His breathing beca increasingly heavy, each intake like an old bellows being pulled, his throat producing strange "huh huh" sounds.
The air in the office solidified, leaving only his rugged breathing and the monotonous repeated shouting from the loudspeakers outside.
Suddenly, he uttered a beastly wounded howl! "Impossible! Absolutely impossible!!"
Du Er jerked his head up, bloodshot eyes burning with the last crazed and desperate gamble.
"Song Heping! You think you can fool with a doctored photo? Lumar will not fail! My armored brigade is invincible! You dirty hyenas are only fit to be crushed!"
He grabbed the edges of the photo with both hands, using all his strength to tear it!
The tough photo paper emitted a piercing "rrrip" as he violently shredded it into halves, then quarters, eighths...
Fragnts like dying butterflies fluttered and scattered from his trembling hands, covered the expensive mahogany table and the dust-covered carpet.
As the fragnts fell, Du Er seed to exhaust all his bluster, his body sagged heavily into the large leather chair, his face gray and lifeless like a tombstone.
Yet he still kept his neck straight, using the last drop of arrogance to maintain his precarious dignity.
Song Heping's gaze swept over the last pretense on Du Er's face, across the scattered photo fragnts on the table.
He showed no anger, no argunt, not even a hint of surprise.
"Then, please take care of yourself, I think our negotiations should end..."
Without another glance at Du Er, he decisively turned around.
Military boots crunched over the crystal chandelier fragnts scattered on the carpet, making a fine and piercing "click" sound, exceptionally clear in the dead still office.
At the doorway, Song Heping looked back, "Then let the bullets do the talking."
The heavy oak door closed silently behind him, isolating the suffocating despair and madness indoors, leaving Du Er alone in the tomb of power.
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