Upon entering Siria, the scars of war are laid bare before your eyes in the most naked manner.
The villages and towns on both sides of the highway are mostly in ruins.
The crumbling walls are riddled with dense bullet holes, and massive shell craters are shocking to behold.
Many houses have been completely destroyed, leaving only a few twisted steel bars pointing towards the sky.
The windows mostly beco black holes, like the eye sockets of a skull.
Burnt-out and shattered car wrecks are scattered everywhere, rusted and littering the fields and ditches, silently narrating the past carnage.
Silia Governnt Army checkpoints are more concentrated, with one nearly every few kiloters.
Sandbag fortifications, concrete barriers, and tank covers make up the main scenery.
The expressions on the soldiers' faces are no longer vigilant but a complex mix of tension, ferocity, and numbness.
Their actions in checking vehicles and personnel are more rough, full of distrust. Besides the governnt army, you can also see ard personnel in mixed uniforms belonging to different militia groups, and occasionally, those clad in modern Russian gear with grim expressions, the Wagner rcenaries — Song Heping can recognize them by their equipnt and distinct aura.
The refugee wave still exists, as the war relentlessly approaches the western coastal areas, making these displaced people's paths even more scattered and helpless.
They mostly move blindly to the suburbs of large cities like Damascus, which have not yet been completely engulfed by war, or seek the rumored refugee camps.
Their faces show even deeper despair.
In the sky, Silia Governnt Army's MiG jets or helicopters occasionally roar by at low altitudes, making a trendous noise.
On the distant horizon, plus of black smoke frequently rise, followed by faintly audible, thunderous explosions.
Every ti the sound of an explosion cos, a ripple of unease sweeps through the crowd on the ground, and children cry fearfully, rushing into their mothers' arms.
Song Heping silently watches the shattered land outside the window.
Although he has been through many battles and seen various brutal battlefields, such a large-scale, comprehensive national collapse and human tragedy still bring him imnse psychological shock.
This is land completely crushed by the war machine, a breeding ground for extremist organizations like 1515, and the bloodiest sacrifice in the geopolitical conflicts of major powers.
The vehicles dare not linger anywhere, racing towards Damascus.
The driver is extrely familiar with the road conditions, often suddenly swerving off Main Street to detour on bumpy, deserted dirt roads, to avoid stretches considered high-risk or frequently ambushed.
Intense gunfire is occasionally heard in nearby neighborhoods, with clear sounds of rifle fire exchanges, the roar of machine guns, and the deafening blasts of rockets, reminding people that death is near.
The victories of 1515 and the opposing Freedom Army have emboldened so dissidents still in governnt-controlled areas, who, perhaps feeling the ti has co, rge with those who have long been restless to form small destructive forces, engaging in looting and killings everywhere.
When a regi loses absolute control, its collapse is like a silent seep at the base of a flood dam, which can unnoticedly cause the dam to break.
Song Heping seems to understand the Chef's anxiety.
He rarely asks for help in this manner.
The guy who left and returned to Russia for the sake of face after abandoning the rcenary group he founded is proud and cares about his reputation.
Calling to ask for help and promising "any condition can be agreed to" clearly indicates that the situation has beco very dire.
On the way to Damascus, Song Heping experienced a thrilling yet unscathed encounter.
The Main Street ahead was suddenly blocked by the wreckage of a burning truck, and dense gunfire could be heard from afar.
The convoy stopped abruptly.
The driver and agents imdiately entered combat mode, grabbing weapons, loading bullets, and nervously observing the surrounding terrain through the windows, searching for possible ambush points and retreat routes.
Fortunately, the skirmish seed to occur in a building complex a few hundred ters away and was not directly targeting them.
After a nearly breathless wait of twenty minutes, governnt soldiers arrived and finally cleared the rioters from the buildings.
A passage was cleared through the road ahead, allowing the vehicles to cautiously maneuver around the burning wreckage and quickly leave the dangerous area.
The closer to Damascus, the density of the military presence increases exponentially.
Layer upon layer of checkpoints, barricades, tanks, and armored vehicles form a series of steel lines of defense.
Many entrances to the city are completely sealed off, or complex zigzag passages are constructed with concrete barriers.
The walls of buildings along the streets are piled with sandbags, and most windows are sealed with bricks or boards.
Pedestrians on the streets are sparse; every person seen without exception is hurried, smiles are nearly absent, and deep within everyone's eyes is a trace of unhidden fear and anxiety.
The entire city, though not yet fallen, is tightly bound by the iron grip of war, gasping for breath.
After hours of bumps, detours, and tense waits, the pickup truck finally drove into an extrely guarded area in the East Suburb of Damascus.
Here seems to be the station of an elite unit of the Syria Republic Guard, also showing many traces of Wagner Military Contractor activities.
High walls, barbed wire, watchtowers, and heavy machine gun positions are everywhere, the atmosphere heavier than any place passed on the road.
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