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Down in the chaotic opium poppy fields at the foot of the hill, Ruffman had already rendezvoused with Black Eye, who was hiding in the drainage ditch. The twenty or so Delta Force operatives who had retreated from the hillside were now providing cover for the two of them. Their air-dropped armored Humvee Jeep had been wrecked by local tribal militants, so they had no choice but to sprint nearly two kilometers, retreating into a small village at the edge of the opium fields. The Delta Force had contacted Bagram Air Base Command, and as long as they held out in this small village for about half an hour, air force reinforcements would come to extract them.
They decided to clear out the village and hold their position, waiting for backup. But after walking cautiously through the village for quite a while, they still hadn’t seen a single soul.
"Don't go in yet. Set up defenses at the village entrance—don't want to accidentally kill any of you. Let me clear the place first!" Ruffman, confident in his skills and courage, said this to Black Eye and the Delta Force team before heading straight for the mud-brick houses deep inside the village.
Soon, in front of one of the mud-brick houses, Ruffman spotted a boy of about ten. The boy was dressed in rags, and shockingly, had an ancient Mosin rifle slung across his back. The boy saw Ruffman, the unexpected intruder, and froze in surprise—then quickly unslung the Mosin and aimed it at Ruffman.
Ruffman paused, frowning and waving his hand to shoo the boy away, but the kid’s mouth had already opened in a sharp yell. He had unslung the Mosin and aimed it at Ruffman, finger already on the trigger!
Seeing the boy about to fire the ancient Mosin, Ruffman didn’t hesitate. He brought his hands to his chest, and in the blink of an eye, two streams of blazing fire wrapped around his arms. His whole body was shrouded in a red blaze. The boy, terrified by this sight, shrieked and instinctively pulled the trigger—bang! The bullet shot toward Ruffman, who raised his right hand and blocked it. The bullet hit his burning hand, flared up, and vanished!
The boy screamed, tossed away the Mosin, and ran toward the mud-brick houses, shouting in Afghan dialect: "The devil is here! A devil whose hands burn with fire!"
A flash of anger crossed Ruffman’s eyes, but he couldn’t afford to be distracted. He quickened his pace, determined to clear out the village and await reinforcements.
He chased the boy deeper into the village. Suddenly, gun barrels poked out from the broken windows of the mud-brick houses, all aimed at Ruffman. As he advanced, countless bullets flew at him, but luckily, the fiery aura around his body melted them into dazzling sparks before they could reach him.
The villagers were now convinced that Ruffman was a fire demon from hell. Several old men even dragged out a few RPGs and aimed them at him. That was the last straw for Ruffman—these ignorant villagers were unbelievable. Did they really think he was a pushover?
Ruffman waved his hands, sending out blinding fireballs. The fireballs smashed into the crumbling mud-brick houses, exploding with thunderous force and instantly toppling them, setting everything ablaze!
To Ruffman, these mud-brick houses were worthless, but to the villagers, they were all they had. His actions had enraged everyone. The old men cursed him in Afghan dialect and fired their weapons—RPG rockets streaked toward him. Ruffman snorted, raised his hands, and swept powerful flames at the rockets, blasting them to dust!
The old men were completely stunned, but their resolve to defend the village made them fearless. They screamed, and in an instant, gunfire erupted from the mud-brick houses, all targeting the Arson Demon Ralph Mann!
Ruffman snapped. All mercy gone, he unleashed his full power. Fireballs flew everywhere, blasting the screaming old men to ashes. The mud-brick houses were soon swallowed by a sea of flames, mixed with villagers' agonized cries, children and women screaming and sobbing in terror.
The Delta Force operatives stationed outside the village stared in shock at the carnage, their hearts pounding. One murmured, "Now I get why he was worried about friendly fire! He's—he's a freaking arsonist from hell!"
Black Eye, however, remained perfectly calm. "Let him kill! Wiping out evidence is his specialty. Won't be long before this village is gone for good!"
One Delta Force operative couldn't help but protest, "But—but he's slaughtering innocents! The kids, the women, the old folks—they're just regular civilians!"
Black Eye squinted at him and said, "Heh, kid, has war scrambled your brains? Get it straight—this is war! War doesn't care who's innocent or who's a civilian! All these years we've fought in Afghanistan, we've killed way more civilians than terrorists. You can't deny that, can you?"
"Ugh—damn this war! Fuk!" The Delta Force guy was at a loss for words. Black Eye was right, and all he could do was curse loudly to vent his frustration.
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Ruffman fought his way through, torching houses and burning anyone he saw. Resistance quickly vanished. Soon, he reached the main house at the heart of the village, where the boy stood guard at the door, using his small body to block the entrance. Fear filled his eyes, but he refused to leave.
Ruffman waved him away, but the boy shrieked and launched himself at Ruffman, clawing and biting, ready to fight to the death. Ruffman, never one for patience, grabbed the boy by the neck and flung him—"Waaah!" The poor kid flew through the air and landed in a burning mud-brick house, catching fire and rolling around, screaming. Ruffman ignored him and kicked open the main house door.
But what he saw inside stunned him—a pregnant woman lay on a crude wooden bed, struggling for life. Women crowded around her, busy with childbirth. The whole village’s women were here, helping deliver the baby.
As the fearsome Ruffman barged in, all the women jumped up in terror and pressed themselves against the earthen walls. Ruffman glanced around; aside from a few ancient rifles in the corner, there was nothing of value.
At that moment, the pregnant woman on the bed stopped struggling. Blood soaked the mattress—she’d died from a difficult birth and blood loss. Her newborn, still attached by the umbilical cord, hung between her legs, frozen purple, eyes shut, motionless—dead or alive, nobody knew.
"Where are your men?" Ruffman suddenly asked a nearby woman in broken Arabic.
"They—they went off to fight," the woman replied nervously.
"Where are they fighting? When will they be back?" Ruffman asked coldly.
"They went—to the mountains to protect the crops—" The "crops" she mentioned were the opium poppy fields the villagers depended on for survival.
"I’ll only say this once—this place is now under our temporary control. Take that woman from the bed and leave!" Ruffman glared coldly with his bull-like eyes.
The women didn’t dare resist. They hurriedly carried out the dead pregnant woman and her child. The whole village was ablaze, and the Afghan women, teary-eyed, wandered desperately through the burning ruins, not knowing where to go. It was hell on earth.
Ruffman knew well enough—if a woman was giving birth, her husband and the other men would soon return. And he already knew: all the men in this village were tribal militants—the very enemy they were about to face.