339: Fatal Blow

The wind and snow were still howling, and ice shards flew wildly through the air.

Su Ling lay prone behind a snowdrift at the edge of the high platform, her sniper rifle mounted on its bipod, the muzzle held low.

Her eye was pressed against the scope, staring at the mech in the distance.

The vents on the back of the mech had cracked, and white smoke was pouring out.

She knew this was her chance.

Her finger had been resting on the trigger for ten seconds.

Her breathing was slow, her chest barely moving.

The wind-driven snow hit her goggles with a rustling sound.

She didn't wait for the system to calculate the trajectory.

This kind of thing relied on experience.

When she was in the SWAT team, she had engaged moving targets in freezing weather.

Back then, there was no high-tech; it was all about feel.

She pressed the rifle down a little, adjusted it slightly to the left, and set the angle.

No one spoke on the communication channel.

The signal had been cut after the long-range attack ended.

She didn't know what state the hope was in now, nor did she know if Chen Wang was still alive.

But she knew that she had to take this shot.

Not because of orders, but because she was the only one who could see that position.

The mech began to charge.

The light on its chest changed from dark red to bright purple, and the heat sinks on its back opened and closed, faster and faster.

It was trying to cool down and maintain operation.

But the cracked vents in the middle were unresponsive, their edges turning white as the metal became brittle.

Su Ling stared at them but didn't choose them.

Hitting those would only buy time, not end the battle.

She wanted to completely destroy this mech.

Her target was the connection point between the chest and the body—the key to its power.

If that were severed, the energy would backflow and blow through the internal circuits.

She skipped the first two points and focused only on the last one.

At that moment, she recalled the three sets of data Chen Wang had sent, like markings on a blueprint.

She chose the deepest line.

She pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, and muzzle flash erupted.

The armor-piercing round flew out, trailing flame, crossing thirty meters of wind and snow, and struck the target dead on.

The bullet pierced the armor, ignited the internal filler, and fire burned inward along the conduits.

The mech jolted violently, the red light on its chest flashing incessantly, and alarms pierced through the storm.

The cockpit initiated emergency isolation, attempting to cut power.

But it was too late.

The bullet had not only pierced the pivot but also ignited the leaking energy fluid.

The purple-black liquid vaporized in the extreme cold, instantly evaporating the surrounding ice and snow to form a vacuum bubble.

Pressure surged, and the conduits burst one after another.

Within three seconds, a chain reaction began.

The rear cooling system was already damaged, and now, with the temperature rising higher and higher, it couldn't hold up at all.

Although the power supply conduit on the left shoulder hadn't been hit, it had been shaken by long-range fire earlier, making its structure unstable.

Once the high temperature reached it, the metal reached its fatigue limit.

With a "snap," the joint broke, and the left arm lost power.

The mech listed to one side, its center of gravity lost.

Then, the connection between the core and the body fused and snapped.

The entire machine broke in two, the upper torso tumbling to the ground.

The turret hit the ground and exploded, sending fragments flying everywhere.

The leg hydraulic rods burst open like bones piercing through the shell.

The fuel tank ignited, and a second explosion overturned the wreckage, sending flames shooting into the sky.

Su Ling didn't move.

She remained prone, her left hand steadying the gun, her right hand slowly releasing the trigger.

In the scope, the mech was disintegrating.

She saw the cockpit ejection system activate; an armor plate blew off, and a person was thrown out, landing on the snow ten meters away, rolling twice before coming to a stop.

It was Yan Shiduo.

He struggled to sit up, a corner of his helmet shattered, blood on his face.

The left leg of his military uniform was torn, revealing the interface of a mechanical prosthetic limb.

He reached for the communicator at his waist, pressing it a few times with no response.

He looked up toward the high platform, his gaze sweeping over the snowdrifts as if searching for her.

The wind and snow were too heavy; he couldn't see anything.

Su Ling packed away her rifle.

Her movements were slow; she first removed the magazine to check the remaining rounds, then used a cloth to wipe the frost off the barrel.

She didn't look at Yan Shiduo again.

The mission was complete.

She stood up, shouldered the rifle, stepped back a few paces to ensure the ground was secure, and then began to withdraw.

On the battlefield below, Imperial soldiers had already begun to flee.

First, someone dropped their weapon and turned to run.

Then two, five, ten.

Some didn't even stop when they stepped on the fallen battle flag.

That flag, emblazoned with the Imperial emblem, was embedded in the ice, half-covered by snow.

No one had ordered a retreat, but everyone understood that they couldn't keep fighting.

That mech was their reliance, the "Proxy" personally piloted by Yan Shiduo, which was said to be capable of 72 hours of continuous combat.

But now, it was just a pile of burning scrap metal.

A guardsman ran over to help Yan Shiduo up.

Yan Shiduo raised his hand to push him away, his voice hoarse: "We haven't lost yet!"

He tried to stand, but his left leg couldn't support him; his knee buckled, and he knelt in the snow.

He looked down at his leg; sparks were coming from the mechanical prosthetic interface, clearly damaged during the ejection.

He tore off a sleeve to wrap around his thigh to stop the bleeding, his fingers frozen purple, his movements stiff.

He looked toward the high platform again.

The wind and snow had swallowed that dark silhouette, leaving only gray and white.

He knew who had done it.

That woman had been hiding there all along, just waiting for this moment.

He opened his mouth to shout, but his throat mic was silent.

The command system was down.

He couldn't even transmit a single word.

The guardsman approached again, this time not daring to touch him, and said in a low voice: "Sir, we have to go."

Yan Shiduo didn't answer.

He watched the mech wreckage, the fire still burning, the metal twisted and deformed like a dead monster.

He clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm.

This was not a defeat.

It was a humiliation.

His whole life, he had been particular about rules: tables had to be aligned, fruit peels cut into spirals, speech rhymed.

But now, everything was in chaos.

The vehicle was gone, his leg was injured, his subordinates had run.

He sat in the snow like a discarded, broken part.

The guardsman pulled him up.

He didn't resist, letting the other man hoist him up, and stumbled toward the bunker.

Behind him, more soldiers threw down their gear and fled.

A logistics vehicle remained in place, its engine still running.

A communication tower had collapsed, its wires dangling in the snow, crackling.

Su Ling walked to the edge of the high ground and took one last look back.

Illuminated by the firelight, Yan Shiduo's figure was small, being supported as he left.

She didn't feel happy.

She only felt cold.

She pulled her mask tight, shouldered her rifle, and returned along the original path.

The snow underfoot was deep, and every step sank in.

She walked steadily, without looking back.

The wind was still blowing.

The wreckage crackled as it burned.

In the distance, several Imperial combat vehicles tried to reorganize a defensive line, but no one obeyed orders.

Command was broken.

The soldiers only wanted to survive.

They ran across ice ditches, climbed onto vehicles that were still functional, and some simply ran on foot into the wind and snow, disappearing.

Su Ling crossed a section of collapsed ice bridge, with a deep valley below.

She stopped, took a flare out of her pocket, and looked at the serial number.

This was a backup plan, to be used to call for support if the main attack failed.

Now it was unnecessary.

She put it back and continued walking.

Her boots crunched on the hard snow.

The rifle felt a bit heavy on her back, her shoulders were sore, but she didn't adjust it.

She remembered what her instructor had said when she was young: "The best shooter isn't the one who is the most accurate, but the one who can complete the mission even in the worst conditions."

That was her right now.

The weather was bad, visibility was poor, the target was moving, but she had done it.

She climbed over a snow slope and saw lights ahead.

It was their temporary position.

A few people were moving things.

She raised her hand to give a signal.

After they responded, she quickened her pace.

When she was almost at the camp, a sentry came up to ask: "Did you take it down?"

She nodded.

"One shot and it blew up."

She didn't speak, taking off her mask and exhaling.

White mist dispersed, her face expressionless.

She bypassed the sentry and walked into the tent.

It was warmer inside, with maps and reports laid out on the table.

She placed her rifle in the corner, took off her gloves, and rubbed her fingers.

Her fingertips were a bit numb, but they could still move.

Footsteps came from outside, and another person entered: "The remnants have started to retreat; they didn't organize a counterattack."

She gave an affirmative grunt.

"Do you want to rest?"

"Waiting for orders," she said.

The person glanced at her and turned to leave.

She sat down, took cleaning tools out of her bag, and began to dismantle the rifle.

First, she removed the chamber, then took off the scope, and used a cloth to wipe the inside of the barrel.

Her movements were skilled and meticulous.

She didn't like waste.

Even a single screw had to be used to the end.

This rifle had fired a critical shot and had to be maintained immediately, or it might jam next time.

She opened a small bottle and dripped oil onto the cloth.

When she wiped the trigger, her hand paused for a moment.

That moment when she pulled the trigger, the force had been just right.

Not too much, not too little.

Just like tightening a screw: too tight and it breaks, too loose and it's slack.

She had mastered that point.

Outside the tent, the wind and snow had lessened.

The firelight was distant.

The mech wreckage was still burning, but no one was watching it anymore.

The war wouldn't stop, but this round was over.