Chapter 52: Departure, Golden Rooster Ridge

After leaving the Criminal Investigation Unit, the Falcon Squad began preparing for their mission. Their destination this time was called Golden Rooster Ridge, situated about five hundred kilometers south of the Imperial Capital. The surrounding area was densely populated, making it one of the regions under close official scrutiny. Two previous teams had already been dispatched there, but neither had sent back any news.

Due to the urgency of the mission, their training course hadn't yet concluded, but the Falcon Squad graduated early and set out. They drove out of the Imperial Capital, passing through the inner third ring. Retracing the route they had taken when entering, they planned to rest at the cinema, and perhaps gather some information from the enthusiastic, hefty manager about the current situation outside.

Although one would expect those inside to be better informed, their month-long, almost closed-off training had left them nearly ignorant of the outside world. The cinema’s manager, notorious for his curiosity, was bound to have acquired plenty of news.

When they parked once more in front of the cinema, the manager was stunned. Most people passing through might not be remembered, but he recalled these individuals very clearly—they had been taken in by force, and it was his first time seeing someone stroll out so boldly. Who exactly were these people? The manager wondered, quickly coming over with a cheerful greeting, convinced they were no ordinary guests.

Seeing that the manager remembered them, the squad was naturally pleased—it spared them much hassle. As acquaintances, there was no need to feign closeness, and certain matters could be discussed directly. Moreover, someone as astute as the manager didn’t require prompting; a single glance and he understood their intent, immediately offering them a private room.

The manager did not probe into their experiences inside or their identities. Perhaps it was his habit of dealing with officials—he knew better than to ask about things he shouldn’t know. Or maybe, hearing they were bound for Golden Rooster Ridge, he guessed their true identities.

Though all sorts of people had recently gathered around Golden Rooster Ridge, the manager sensed the place was far from peaceful. About a month ago, a group claiming to be from the Special Investigation Team headed there—weren’t those agents? And looking at this squad, the more he observed, the less they seemed ordinary. Though slim and dressed in regular clothing, he could see the taut muscle beneath their shirts—such physiques were hardly common. Especially the one called Brother Long, who claimed to be thirty-five and a father of several children—his sinewy build spoke of regular exercise. An average man at that age would have long grown paunchy and sluggish.

The Falcon Squad cared little about the manager’s suspicions or his opinions. What mattered most to them was his account of the past month’s developments in the outside world.

According to the manager, the situation had grown tense lately. Most cities worldwide had either halted reconstruction or faced obstacles. Some refugee populations had begun to riot, even joining hostile organizations. Rumor had it that the Mediterranean island nation of Cyprus had completely fallen. The United Nations had issued a global warning, forbidding civilians and merchant ships from entering Cyprus’s waters.

Domestically, unrest prevailed as well. Rebellious factions had emerged, and the dark syndicates were growing unchecked, with the authorities powerless to act. Golden Rooster Ridge was one of the affected areas.

From the manager’s perspective, he advised the young men against going. Previously, some Special Investigation Team members who had stayed at his place had fallen in Golden Rooster Ridge; he had witnessed their bodies returned to the National Martyrs’ Cemetery. Unlike the hearsay and rumors, this was something he had seen with his own eyes.

Though the manager advised against it, the Falcon Squad, bound by duty, had no choice but to proceed to Golden Rooster Ridge. After bidding him farewell, they wasted no time and hit the road.

The journey from the Imperial Capital to Golden Rooster Ridge, about five hundred kilometers south, would once have taken only half a day by highway. Now, things were different. Since the calamity, many stretches of highways and national roads had been closed for a long time, overgrown with weeds as tall as a man, with no maintenance crews in sight.

Their trek was arduous, taking nearly a whole day before they reached the vicinity of Golden Rooster Ridge, still several dozen kilometers away. They got out of the vehicle.

“We’re driving a military car. We can’t go any further—let’s get out here,” Lin Xiaofeng, the driver, suggested, concerned for their safety.

“Yeah. We can blend in with the refugee groups heading in,” Zhang Xingmin noted, seeing scattered civilians walking toward Golden Rooster Ridge.

The four exchanged a knowing glance, gathered their necessary gear, and abandoned the vehicle. Before leaving, they sent their location to headquarters—so the local military could retrieve the car, and to alert the authorities for possible support if needed.

To avoid suspicion, they purposefully made themselves look disheveled, as though beaten down by hardship. The exhaustion needed no acting; after a day of jostling in the car, they were already worn out.

The closer they drew to Golden Rooster Ridge, the more refugees gathered, and inevitably, some struck up conversation. But the squad was well prepared—they had coordinated their story. If asked where they came from, they would say Jiang City, as each could speak the local dialect.

As for why they were coming from the north, their tale was that they had been business partners in Jiang City, but because Jiang City suffered heavily in the disaster, they decided to seek refuge in Fuzhou, the hometown of one of their group, which had been spared at first. But Fuzhou later met its own misfortune, so they wandered on to the Imperial Capital. Recently, friends also seeking refuge in the capital had told them that Golden Rooster Ridge was recruiting capable people, promising a stable life to those who were chosen. They figured, being tall and strong, they might try their luck.

Misery loves company, and their story resonated with many refugees. Since the disaster, they had drifted from place to place, unable to find peace or livelihood, their circumstances worsening by the day. As they spoke, tears flowed freely, memories stirred of the days when stability reigned—the era when people complained about soaring prices and unattainable property values.

Talking and walking, they soon neared Golden Rooster Ridge. The crowd halted. Upon inquiry, the squad learned that too many people had come seeking asylum; these were queued to enter, while others, rejected due to stricter admission standards, had set up tents nearby, unwilling to return home.

After a brief discussion, the Falcon Squad decided to pitch a tent themselves and settle in for the night, waiting to see what would happen next.