Chapter 2215: Peace Bridge?

Chapter 2215 -888: Peace Bridge?

Aleppo, Northern Suburbs Battlefield

Assad didn’t know how far he had charged.

A bullet had hit his left leg, passing through the outer side of the thigh, missing the bone, but every step felt like a knife twisting in his flesh. He gritted his teeth, dragging that leg, limping forward.

Less than fifty people remained by his side.

They were scattered among craters and rubble, some shooting, some loading, some lying on the ground unable to get up.

In the distance, there were at least thirty Turkish tanks.

Aligned in two rows, like two lines of gray iron beasts, their cannons aimed in their direction.

“Mr. President!” A young soldier crawled over, his face covered in dust, eyes bloodshot, “From the north! Turkish infantry have flanked us from the north! At least two battalions!”

Assad turned his head.

In the north, amidst the ruins of the bombed-out village, shadows were moving. It wasn’t the Syrian National Army, but the Turkish Regular Army. They wore camouflage uniforms, night-vision goggles, holding HK416s. They moved swiftly between the ruins like a pack of trained wolves.

“How many are left?” Assad asked.

The young soldier looked back. “Less than forty. Bullets—less than five per person. Hand Grenades—none left.”

Assad closed his eyes. Three seconds later, he opened them.

“Are there any knives left?”

The young soldier hesitated.

The young soldier pulled out a dagger from his waist and handed it to him. Assad took the dagger, holding it in his hand. The blade gleamed coldly under the moonlight, sharp.

“Brothers,” he stood up, looking at those eyes still shining in the darkness, “When the bullets are gone, use bayonets. When the bayonets break, use fists. When the fists are broken, use teeth. Today, we die here. In death, we will take a piece of them with us.”

Those soldiers stood up one after another, drawing bayonets, gripping daggers.

Forty knives, gleaming cold in the moonlight.

The Turkish infantry approached. The one in the front was less than fifty meters from Assad, holding a gun, crouching, moving towards them. He didn’t see Assad; his night vision was facing forward, missing the flanking crater.

Assad charged out of the crater.

The dagger slid across that soldier’s throat, blood spurted out, splashing across Assad’s face. The soldier fell, eyes still open, unaware of what had happened. The soldiers behind reacted, guns turned—

But Assad had already charged into their midst.

The dagger plunged into the second man’s chest, pulled out, plunged into the third man’s stomach.

The third man fell, a gunshot sounded—not Assad’s but the Turks’. They fired in panic, hitting their own. Someone shouted, someone screamed, someone cried.

Assad didn’t stop.

Fourth person, fifth person, sixth person—

He didn’t know how many he had killed; his dagger broke. The tip flew who-knows-where, the hilt remained in his hand, the break white like a snapped bone. He discarded the hilt, picked up a dropped HK416 from the ground. The magazine was full, thirty bullets.

He held the gun, continued charging.

When the bullets ran out, he used the gunstock to smash. When the stock broke, he punched. When the fists were ruined, he bit.

He bit a Turkish soldier’s ear, that man screamed, struggled, gunstock smashed into Assad’s back, once, twice, thrice. Assad didn’t let go, tore off the ear, spat it out.

That man fell, Assad stood up.

Around him, no standing Turks remained.

He stood there, drenched in blood, breathing heavily. The wound on his left leg split open, blood trickling down his pants, dripping to the ground, onto the corpses, onto the shell casings.

Khalid was gone. That nineteen-year-old soldier, the young man who called out “Mr. President” while holding him, was gone.

Where did he die?

In the first wave of charge or in the chaos afterward? He didn’t know. He only remembered that face. Nineteen, still with unshaven stubble, eyes bright.

In the distance, Turkish tanks continued to advance.

The clattering of tracks on the ground grew louder, causing the ground to tremble.

Assad turned around, looked at the soldiers who could still move. Less than twenty. They scattered among the ruins, some panting, some loading, some leaning against the walls, eyes closed, as if asleep.

“Brothers,” he began, voice hoarse like sandpaper, “Any more bullets?” ℴ

One soldier raised his magazine. “I have two left.”

“I have one left.”

“None left for me.”

Assad nodded. He dismantled his magazine, took a glance. Still seven rounds left. He reattached it, raised his gun.

“Brothers, it’s almost dawn.”

The eastern horizon had begun to brighten. Very faint, like a thin layer of gray.

In the distance, the Turkish tanks stopped.

The cannons turned, aimed at them.

Assad stood there, holding the gun, looking at those dark cannon muzzles.

“Long live Syria.”

He charged out.

Behind him, those less than twenty soldiers followed, charging into that gray dawn.

Cannon fire sounded.

Not the Turkish artillery.

It fired from Aleppo City.

Shells dropped in the midst of the Turkish tank convoy, one tank was hit, its turret flew off, crashed to the ground, rolled twice, halted. Second. Third. Fourth.

Assad stopped, turned around.

From Aleppo City, at least ten tanks were rolling out. Syrian flags were hoisted atop the turrets, green, white, black, with two stars. But these were not First Division tanks. First Division tanks had long been destroyed.