Dawn in Northern Darfur.
The sky was a cold, ashen white, the thin morning light unable to pierce the lingering chill over the Gobi Desert.
The training base of the "Musician" Defense Company, sprawling like a steel behemoth on the wasteland, had long been awakened by a primal and frenzied wave of sound.
Over five thousand hearts beat in quick rhythm, converging into a low, oppressive hum.
At the entrance of the base, chaos reigned like a boiling sandstorm vortex.
The engine roars of pickups howled with exhaustion, kicking up a cloud of yellow dust.
Soldiers dressed in faded camouflage, tribal robes, and even tattered civilian clothes surged from all directions like iron filings drawn by a magnet.
Their faces were etched with the ravages of long journeys, their eyes sunken, yet deep within their pupils burned the wild joy of finding a ho and the unquenched fire of revenge—these were the scattered remnants of soldiers who had survived and fled the devastating betrayal in the Desert City, who, following a faint radio call, had crossed the Sahara Desert, leapt past borders, and gathered at the "Musician" Defense training base in Northern Darfur—the remnants of Haftar's forces.
The makeshift tent area spread swiftly like moss, the air abuzz with voices, the scent of sweat, dust, low-quality tobacco, and an primal agitation for the impending storm mingling in the cold air.
Five thousand n!
This was Haftar's last stake.
In stark contrast to the outer chaos, the core training area of the base was enveloped in a dead silence as solid as forged steel.
This area was guarded by 127 veterans who had survived the bloody battle of Razorback.
They arrived earlier than these remnants and had received basic training before them, donned in brand-new desert digital camouflage uniforms, crisply ironed, with immaculate inner layers.
At this mont, their role was discipline inspection.
These veterans stood like silent boundary markers, maintaining the most standard alert posture with firearms at ten-ter intervals along the edge of the training ground.
The training ground was astonishingly large, sufficient to accommodate several thousand people training simultaneously.
The leveled sand surface was marked with clear white li lines, dividing it into several gigantic squares.
In the distance were the burgeoning ruins of a mock town and the crisscrossing network of tactical trenches.
At this mont, atop the high platform at the front of the site, two figures stood like stabilizing pillars.
Song Heping, in an unmarked olive drab training uniform, stood with his hands behind his back, his gaze coolly overlooking the crowd below, which was gradually gathering and tumultuous like a giant can of sardines.
Half a step beside him stood Jiang Feng—a forr instructor of the elite group army teaching regint of the PLA.
"Quiet——!"
Jiang Feng spoke.
His voice wasn't loud, even slightly hoarse, yet like an ice pick accompanied by Siberian cold winds, it instantly pierced through the hum of thousands, driving sharply into everyone's eardrums!
No loudspeaker was needed, just the chest resonance and breath control honed by years of intensive training.
This single command caused the pupils of many self-proclaid brave veterans to suddenly constrict.
"Attention——!"
The command was crisp, cold, and decisive, leaving no room for hesitation.
The reaction below exposed the underlying nature of this "army" in an instant.
The veterans who had undergone a week of training at Razorback snapped to attention as if lifted by invisible strings, heels together, knees taut, chests out, chin slightly retracted, 127 individuals forming a silent iron forest with synchronized precision.
The thousands of newcors, however, were like a startled mob of sand lizards—so glanced around in confusion, so instinctively straightened their long-hunched backs, while many continued to whisper amongst themselves, their ranks disordered and unstable, akin to a withered grassland ravaged by a fierce wind.
Jiang Feng's brow didn't twitch, but the chill in his eyes dropped another ten degrees, cold enough to freeze the air.
"So it seems..."
His voice carried unabashed, tallic sarcasm, "You'd fed all your guts to the dogs at Desert City!"
He stepped forward, the invisible pressure spreading tangibly: "From today, you're no longer gun-wielding bandits, deserters, or tribal thugs! You're warriors under General Haftar, poised to return to Libya and wash away disgrace with blood and fire! A warrior must have a warrior's spine! A warrior's bones!"
"All units——!"
His voice suddenly rose, like a thunderclap, "Formation training! One hour! The goal——stand like the veterans at the training ground's edge! Be the rock on the Gobi that neither the wind can topple nor the sun can lt! Anyone moves——extra training! Anyone falls——elimination! Get out of this base!"
The order crashed down like a cold iron hamr, indisputable and uncompromising. There was no explanation, no motivation, only the basic, monotonous, yet most will-testing and obedience-shaping crucible—marching drills.
The organizational structure of two infantry regints that Song Heping pre-assigned for over 5,000 n swiftly mobilized.
The veterans who had received the earliest training acted like the most precise cogs, already assigned to critical positions at various levels to serve as core mbers.
The elite rcenaries of "Musician" Defense were appointed as regintal commanders, battalion commanders, and company commanders of the training regint.
At this mont, under the harsh reprimands and rough shoves of officers and veteran mbers at all levels, the enormous and chaotic crowd began to be forcibly shunted into the designated formations.
The scorching sun had climbed skyward, the temperature ruthlessly beginning its rise.
The surface temperature of the Gobi Desert soared at a pace visible to the naked eye, the scorching heat waves distorting the air.
Over five thousand n were like ants forced onto a red-hot iron plate.
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