Mercenaries, I Will Be King Chapter 1047 - 962:

"Don't get cocky, Song! I haven't lost yet!"

Lumar's voice roared over the satellite phone like a beast whose tail had been stepped on.

"Six brigades! I still have six entire brigades of armored units at my disposal! You think I've definitely lost?! You called just to mock ?! And you think you're qualified?!"

He was practically howling, "Don't forget! You're still the number one fugitive on the UN terrorist list! The British won't let you go! The Aricans know you're alive, and they definitely won't spare you either..."

On the other end of the line, Song Heping didn't even have a chance to speak before Lumar completely lost control.

"What are you so agitated about?"

Song Heping's tone was as calm as ice water, instantly quenching the other's outburst of anger, "Winning or losing depends not on how loud you shout, but on strength."

He paused, each word like a precise bullet, aid at Lumar's vital points:

"It's true that you have six armored brigades. But they're pinned down in the northern mountains—is that rugged area an artillery field for armored units? Is it terrain your tal behemoths excel in? If they were so effective, why are you stuck there, unable to even touch the edges of Butare?"

Each sentence pierced like a dagger.

Lumar felt a rush of blood surge to his head, lodged in his throat, unable to utter a word, his ears buzzing, veins on the verge of bursting.

"Song! You... you're nothing but a despicable scoundrel!"

Cornered with no argunts left, Lumar could only shriek hysterically with the most feeble personal attacks.

On the other end, Song Heping's low laughter ca through: "Ha... I'm the scoundrel? Then what are you? I helped you and Du Er ascend to the presidency, and then you turned around and tried to kill , grabbing the politician's portfolio for yourself? Lumar, spare , I have no interest in playing moral court with you. This call is your last chance—surrender, it's your only path to survival."

Song Heping's tone was unquestionable: "Hand over your troops, and I'll guarantee your safety. You can take your wife and kids, along with all the money you've pocketed over the years, and get out of Sena. Go wherever you want, I don't care for the rest of your life."

"But."

His voice suddenly turned icy, chilling to the bone, "If you still harbor any illusions of resisting.... that's just stupid. I know you have the Brits backing you. But to be honest, I don't give a damn! I dared to ambush U.S. Special Forces, and the CIA has been hunting down for years—I haven't batted an eyelid. A re handful of British Special Forces that have barely reached the Northern Darfur border think they can make bow? Dream on!"

"Song Heping!"

Lumar was completely deranged, screaming hoarsely into the phone, "Dream on! Even if I, Lumar, have to die, I'll never surrender to scum like you! I swear! I will fight my way back to Butare! I will personally drag you to the gallows! I will cut open your belly, draw out your intestines, and strangle you with them! You just wait! Just wait!"

Power, wealth, status...

The paradise he had barely attained for three months was turning into smoke.

Exile?

To be granted a lifeline like a stray dog by soone like Song Heping, a wanted criminal?

Who does he think he is?!

And why?!

The frenzied curses echoed in the command center, eventually silenced by a sharp disconnection tone.

Lumar slamd the satellite phone down onto the table, causing it to buzz with the impact.

The surrounding staff were frozen in place, not daring to make a sound.

After a good while, the raging blood finally receded from Lumar's head.

He lifted his head, surveyed the surroundings, and his heart sank suddenly—the staff officers and deputies' eyes flickered with complex, hard-to-read expressions, the air heavy with unspoken suspicion and wavering loyalty.

Song Heping's call...

Wasn't ant to make him surrender!

It was a trap!

A toxic plan to undermine the troops' morale!

And then there was the puppet president Isis's broadcast speech...

Promising to pardon officers and not hold them accountable...

Nonsense!

That must also be Song Heping's handiwork!

That China person...

Too cunning!

Too sinister!

"What the hell are you all looking at?!"

Lumar jumped up like a lion with its tail stepped on, eyes bloodshot, glaring fiercely at everyone.

"Get back to your posts! We haven't lost yet! The British won't give up here! Their forces will soon move in! They'll crush that puppet governnt! Everyone pull yourselves together! This is a plot to drive a wedge! It's Song Heping's sche! You really believe what Isis said? That's a death warrant to make you lay down your weapons! Once you surrender, you'll be the first to die!"

He panted heavily, like a cornered beast ready to devour its prey.

The staff listened, chills running down their spines, not because of Isis's promises, but because of the naked madness in their commander's eyes—any dissent would likely be t with imdiate "cleansing."

The group quickly dispersed as if granted a reprieve.

The command center was left with only Lumar's heavy breathing, like that of a worn-out bellows.

He stared intently at the satellite phone on the table, his expression uncertain. Minutes later, he picked it up again, his fingers trembling as he dialed a number—his forr chief advisor from Britain, Weber.

This was his final lifeline.

---

A few hours later.

The Thas River flowed outside the window, reflecting the characteristic leaden, misty London sky.

Inside the low-key Georgian-style building by the river, the atmosphere contrasted sharply with the stillness of the water outside.

In the top-tier strategy room at MI6 headquarters, codenad "Q," the air felt as if it had solidified into a gel of cold tension, each breath laden with heavy pressure.

At the center of the conference table, a high-resolution satellite image dominated the main screen.