Working as a police officer in Mexico

The outskirts of Sinaloa were an empty expanse.

Located in the tropical dry forests of Sonora State, Sinaloa, after all, wasn't far from the hottest desert in the entire North American region—just a few dozen kilometers away as the crow flies.

There were no skyscrapers, but to fend off the Anti-Drug Force's attacks, these drug traffickers had begun digging trenches.

In a V-shaped trench, numbered "17," Roberto Torres Morales leaned against the side, knees wearily bent, pulling out some rations from his chest to eat. He got choked not paying attention and quickly picked up his water to wash it down.

"Roberto, got any more food?" asked a nearby companion in a hushed voice. Hesitating, he handed over his biscuit, which the other wolfed down in two or three bites, then looked at him expectantly.

Roberto Torres Morales spread his hands to show he had no more.

"Hey, why did we even come to fight in Mexico? Wasn't Colombia good enough?" his companion heaved a sigh of despair.

They were members of the Colombian Expeditionary Force, full of zeal when they arrived, and as per the North American Drug Syndicate's terms, they were paid 200 US dollars a day in salary alone.

The rate was actually quite good.

Six thousand US dollars a month; even in the early stage of the United States' invasion of Afghanistan, that was about the going rate for a mercenary, of course, depending on your skills.

Roberto Torres Morales and his colleagues had come from Colombia to join the battle. Guzman had treated them well at first—food, accommodation, and even women were all adequately provided.

But once Guzman fell ill unexpectedly, Sinaloa erupted in internal strife!

The cousins in charge simply ignored them, sometimes even forgetting to send supplies!

Roberto Torres Morales was part of the 3rd Company of the 1st Battalion of the Colombian Expeditionary Force, formerly a member of M-19, an anti-government armed force back home.

"Morales, let's run for it!" his companion spoke in a low quiver, fear flickering in his eyes. "My gut tells me we can't hold Culiacán."

"Run? You expect to walk back to Colombia on two legs?" He gazed at the moon above, speaking faintly, his gaze hollow.

His companion caught in his throat and listlessly lay down on the ground.

Woo! Woo woo woo!

Suddenly, a piercing alarm sounded from the western side of the northern suburbs. Roberto Torres Morales sprang up, not forgetting to kick his sleeping companion. As his head peeked over the trench,

his pupils constricted sharply!

Barely 10 centimeters from him, another pair of eyes stared back!

In the darkness, both pairs of eyes were bright, but also filled with terror.

The man lying in wait was a Private First Class, with quick reactions; his feet pushed off fiercely, kicking up the dirt behind him as he lunged toward Roberto Torres Morales, and the two grappled in the trench.

Upon seeing this, his companion panicked. His hands holding the AK47 wanting to fire, but fearful of hitting an ally by mistake.

Meanwhile, the comrades who had crept up with the Private First Class also rose, wielding Uzi submachine guns overhead, spraying downwards.

Morales's companion was enveloped in a mist of blood, clearly hit by a dozen bullets or more.

There were over thirty assailants. When gunfire erupted, except for four or five men in trench "17," the rest vigorously charged toward the other dugouts.

The battle erupted instantly!

Major Horatio Herbert Kitchener, the commanding officer of the rears, upon hearing the shots, stood beside an LAV-25 armored personnel carrier, raising his M16, "Gentlemen, follow me! Charge!"

His chest heaved mightily as he led the charge with his men!

Following orders and charging ahead were two different things!

The officers under Victor were mostly battle-hardened from the front lines.

If luck wasn't on your side, how could one bear the responsibility of stirring up chaos?

Little Mustache served in Bavaria's 16th Reserves Infantry Regiment during World War I, fighting in battles against Anglo-French forces, including the First Battle of Ypres, the Battle of the Somme, the Battle of Arras, and the Battle of Passchendaele.

In 1917, he was promoted from "messenger" to Private First Class and was awarded a First Class Iron Cross and a Second Class Iron Cross for his courage in battle.

If he had been killed by poison gas back then,

would fate still be on his side?

Victor always believed in one saying: generals rise from the ranks, and chancellors from the state departments.

Victor himself climbed up from the bottom, step by step.

Only warriors survive on the battlefield.

Of course, not by swarming forward; ever since that jackass doctor Maxim lost all sense of honor, all manner of life-saving devices like Gatling and life-restoring Browning appeared.

Those lords were veritable "plague exterminators," not wanting to see the wounded.

If you approached en masse, wouldn't you be mowed down?

To charge is to charge, but at the very least, you must understand tactics.

Horatio Herbert Kitchener immediately split his men into groups of four, each at a distance of about 10 meters apart—the field was big enough, they could run wherever they pleased!

So long as they broke through the line of defense.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat!

Seeing the Anti-Drug Force charge forward, the drug traffickers atop the northern suburbs panicked, setting up their machine guns to fire wildly. Their firepower was fierce, but they couldn't see their targets.

"Idiots! Flares!!!" shouted a Colombian who appeared to be a commander, kicking a nearby orderly. Read exclusive adventures at My Virtual Library Empire

The latter quickly adjusted his helmet and ran to the artillery position in the rear to pass on the orders.

A few minutes later, several sharp, piercing sounds rang out, and the whole sky suddenly lit up.

A lizard looked up at the suddenly bright sky, pupils focusing in panic as it tried to scurry back into its hole, only to be crushed under a "heaven-sent" foot that came crashing down on its head, squashing it flat.