At that moment, Mr. Martin stared coldly at the armed militants surging up the hillside. His chiseled, gaunt face grew stern, and a flash of blue light flickered in his eyes. He shrugged his shoulders, closed his eyes slightly, and began to concentrate his mental power, quickly rubbing his hands together as he stood up behind cover.
Many of the militants climbing the slope had already spotted Mr. Martin. They never expected anyone in the US military to be so reckless. Dressed in a black casual suit, Martin stood out like a living target. The ones charging at the front were all armed with RPG rocket launchers, and of course, they didn’t hold back. In an instant, more than a dozen rockets, trailing flames, screamed toward Martin.
The Delta Force operatives hiding behind cover glanced outside and shouted, "Oh my god! Are you out of your mind? Get back here, quick! We don’t want your guts hanging over our heads!"
But Martin just gave a cold smile, ignoring the Delta Force operatives’ frantic shouts. He planted his feet apart, bracing himself for the incoming rockets, and struck a runner’s starting pose.
The Delta Force operatives turned away, not wanting to witness the carnage. In their hearts, they mourned Martin’s crazy stunt: "Oh Lord, please end his suffering quickly and bring this skinny fool to your side! He’s lost his mind, amen!"
Then, something strange happened. The dozen or so rockets heading for Martin suddenly veered off course a few meters from his body, flying off in another direction. Martin was completely unharmed. A faint blue glow, crackling with electric arcs, began to shimmer around him, and his eyes sparkled with blue fire.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Brilliant blue rings of light began to radiate from Martin’s body, forming a bizarre protective layer that shimmered with blue waves. Rockets and bullets kept flying at him, but as soon as they reached that strange blue aura, it was as if some mysterious force bounced them away, sending them arcing off in all directions.
"Die—you bastards!" Martin suddenly howled at the sky. He stomped his feet hard, and his lean figure shot forward like a black cannonball, whistling straight toward the militants wielding AK-47 rifles and shoulder-mounted RPGs.
In a flash, Martin darted right up to one of the militants at the front. The young fighter’s eyes went wide with fear, his hands fumbling, and the RPG on his shoulder fired off wildly into the sky.
A weird smile spread across Martin’s gaunt face. He opened his palms, revealing rings of blue electric light crackling and hissing. The young militant, terrified, tossed the RPG aside and ran, shrieking in Arabic, "Oh god! It’s the devil! The electric devil is here…"
Boom! The young militant didn’t get far before Martin swung his hand, sending a streak of blue lightning slamming into his back. The force hurled him into the air, flipping him over several times before he crashed to the ground! When he landed, his body was unrecognizable—charred black, still smoking, and reeking of burnt flesh.
The rest of the militants surging up the slope were stunned, but managed to hold their formation. A bearded man in an Arab headscarf—clearly a tribal chieftain—immediately barked orders in Arabic: "Everyone, concentrate your fire! Kill that electric devil!" He fired his AK-47 at Martin, and with his command, the militants unleashed a hail of bullets.
Martin’s lean figure was wrapped in rings of blue lightning. Rockets and bullets were thrown off course by the electric field surrounding him. He pushed his powers to the limit, let out a low growl, and charged forward at lightning speed—"Whoosh—whoosh—"—right into the crowd of militants, his hands swinging nonstop.
"Whoosh! Whoosh! Whoosh!"
Streaks of blue light blasted into the militants, and in no time, over thirty resistance fighters around Martin were reduced to charred, smoking corpses. Even the blood spurting from their bodies boiled black. The scene was brutally terrifying. The tribal militants fell into chaos—Martin’s slaughter was so fast, he killed dozens in less than two minutes!
The surrounded Delta Force operatives suddenly felt the pressure lift. They stared in shock at the monster-like Siegel, each making the sign of the cross and praying, "Oh! I swear to God, everything I’m seeing is real!"
The Delta Force soldiers sprang into action, quickly taking up advantageous positions and launching a fierce counterattack alongside the rampaging Martin. With their teamwork, Delta Force’s skill finally showed itself—each operative fired with expert precision, their P5s, 6s, and 4As spitting fire. The militants being chased by Martin dropped like leaves in the wind, and the tide of battle swiftly turned.
Martin was now in a killing frenzy, his body a whirlwind of blue lightning as he chased the fleeing tribal militants across the hillside. Anyone he caught was struck down by thunder, left as a charred corpse. The tribal fighters, who had held all the advantages in numbers and terrain, were now scattered—most of them slaughtered by Martin in less than five minutes!
As the tribal chieftain was blasted away by a powerful bolt of lightning from Martin, "Bang!"—a sniper shot rang out. Dudarev, less than two meters away, aimed his Dragunov Sniper Rifle at Martin’s head and pulled the trigger. A powerful armor-piercing round screamed through the air, striking Martin’s electric shield and bursting into a shower of sparks! But it couldn’t penetrate.
"Damn! That bastard’s a freak of nature—" Dudarev was shocked. The bullet he fired was a custom steel-core armor-piercing round, far deadlier than a regular bullet, but even that couldn’t get through Martin’s blue electric shield. Martin really was a monster!
Martin kept hunting down the remaining resistance fighters, slaughtering his way through ravines and valleys, leaving a trail of charred corpses behind him.