216: Chapter 216 Wars on the List

[Weapons: 1,000 AK-12 assault rifles (with 5 magazines and 300 rounds of 7.62mm ammunition per rifle); 200 RPG-7 launchers (800 PG-7VR tandem HEAT rounds); 30 Kornet-EM anti-tank missile systems (150 missiles); 500 individual drones (reconnaissance/attack types); 1,000 PN-14K night vision goggles.]

[Equipment: Tactical vests, helmets, medical kits (including tourniquets and battlefield first-aid medicine), engineering tools (shovels, picks, detonating cords).]

[Supplies: Compressed dry rations (sufficient for 500 people for 30 days), water purification tablets, basic medicine (antibiotics, painkillers).]

This was a list sufficient to arm a battalion-sized unit. In Gaza's current environment, such a force, if used properly, would be enough to become a stinger driven into the ribs of the Squid Nation Defense Forces.

[Estimated Total Consumption: 15,000 points. Requesting approval.]

Zhang Cheng looked at the list, the corners of his mouth curling slightly.

"Approved. Additional supplement: 20 individual anti-drone electromagnetic guns and 30 IED production toolkits."

[Additional Consumption: 2,000 points]

[Total Consumption: 17,000 points]

[First wave summoning in preparation... Estimated delivery time: 6 hours]

Line B · Yemen: Sparks in the Mountain Wind

At the same time, Yemen, southwestern mountainous area of Taiz City.

When Houssa stepped onto this land, he felt an atmosphere completely different from Gaza. There were no dense ruins, no ubiquitous smell of char, but there was a deeper, more stubborn suffering.

The mountains were bald, the rocks exposed, with only sparse thorns growing on the shaded sides. Villages were scattered along dried-up riverbeds, their adobe houses low and dilapidated. Most of the men wore traditional "fouta" (robes) with curved daggers or old AK-47s tucked into their waists; their eyes were filled with vigilance toward outsiders and numbness toward life.

Houssa's way of "appearing" was more flamboyant than Sinwar's.

Instead of hiding in ruins, he rode in three battered Toyota pickup trucks, leading thirty equally travel-worn "tribal warriors," and drove grandly into the largest tribal settlement in southwestern Taiz—the territory of the Bani Khalid tribe.

DShK heavy machine guns were mounted on the pickups, and the truck beds were piled with wooden crates covered in canvas. Houssa himself sat in the passenger seat of the lead vehicle, wearing desert camouflage combat fatigues and a red checkered keffiyeh, with a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses covering half his face. There was a fresh scar on his left cheek—in the "memory" implanted by the system, it was left three weeks ago during a skirmish with Saudi Arabia-backed militias at the border.

The convoy was stopped at the entrance of the tribal settlement.

More than twenty armed men emerged from behind earthen walls. Although their muzzles weren't pointed directly at the convoy, their fingers were all on the trigger guards. Leading them was an elder in his fifties with a thick, grizzled beard, wearing a faded white robe, but the silver-plated "jambiya" (curved dagger) at his waist signaled his status.

"Stop! Outsiders, state your names and purpose!" the elder shouted in Arabic with a heavy tribal accent.

Houssa pushed open the car door and jumped down. He didn't answer immediately, but slowly took off his sunglasses, revealing eyes like a falcon's. Then, he did something that surprised everyone—he knelt on one knee and placed his right hand over his chest.

"In the name of Allah, I, Houssa bin Abdul Rahman Bani Khalid, the exiled wanderer, have come home."

The scene fell into a dead silence.

The elder's eyes widened suddenly. He stepped forward a few paces, leaning in to scrutinize Houssa's face, then looked at the "warriors" behind him who had also knelt.

"Houssa? Little Houssa? Abdul's youngest son who followed the caravan to Oman and then went off to fight?"

"It is I, Sheikh Mahmoud." Houssa looked up, his voice carrying just the right amount of choking emotion. "It has been seventeen years. My father... is he well?"

Sheikh Mahmoud's expression instantly became complex. He stepped forward to help Houssa up, patted his shoulder hard, and then shook his head heavily: "Child, you have come back too late. Two years ago, the Saudis' planes bombed the border market. Your father and your two brothers were all there..."

Houssa closed his eyes. The "memory" implanted by the system merged perfectly with his performance at this moment, and a tear slid from the corner of his eye—it was a genuine physiological reaction, as the system had indeed implanted deep feelings for his "father" and "brothers."

"I know." When he opened his eyes again, only cold flames remained in his gaze. "I saw the black smoke from the other side of the border. So I have returned, bringing brothers who are willing to come back with me. We will settle this blood debt."

Sheikh Mahmoud sized up the men behind Houssa. Thirty sturdy men; though dressed differently, they stood tall with sharp gazes, clearly well-trained warriors. The heavy machine guns on the pickups were well-maintained, and in the gaps of the canvas-covered wooden crates, the tail fins of rockets were faintly visible.

"How many... how many of you are there?" the elder lowered his voice.

"Standing here now, thirty," Houssa also lowered his voice. "But on the other side of the mountain, there are more than two hundred brothers willing to follow me. What we lack is a place to stay and the tribe's recognition."

Sheikh Mahmoud was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly waved his hand: "Come in! All of you, come in! Leaving guests to stand outside is not the way of the Bani Khalid!"

The barriers were removed. Houssa put his sunglasses back on, a faint, imperceptible smile touching the corner of his mouth.

The system's background implantation had worked perfectly—he was now the "returning tribal hero," bringing with him a blood feud and an elite armed force. In a place like the mountainous regions of southern Yemen, this had more rallying power than any other identity.

That night, in the tribal council tent.

The light from sheep-fat lamps illuminated the dozen or so people sitting in a circle. Besides Sheikh Mahmoud and three other tribal leaders, there were four men dressed in robes but with temperaments clearly different from ordinary herders—they were representatives from three other small neighboring tribes, all drawn by the news of Houssa's "return."

"...The 'legitimate government' supported by the Saudis doesn't care about us at all," a leader with a scar on his face said indignantly. "They only want Taiz's ports and oil fields. To them, we mountain people can just die."

"The Squid Nation people are even more detestable." Another younger representative spat. "Their drones fly over our heads all day. Last year, my nephew was just herding sheep at the border when he was bombed as a 'terrorist'!"