L: Alright, I'm heading off to grab some food too. If anything comes up, reach out in this chatroom. I'm basically always here.
Chen Ge logged out of the chatroom, wiped, pulled up his pants, and flushed the toilet. He had just washed his hands and stepped out of the bathroom when a knock came at the door.
He pulled it open to find Big Bear, Manhole Cover, and Night Cat standing outside, all looking sharp and energized.
"Ready? Let's go, let's go. Time to pick up some gear."
Big Bear and the others were entirely on board. Hardened veterans of the battlefield like them knew all too well the massive disparity between Russian issue and Western equipment.
The standard-issue gear provided to Wagner elites—such as what their Falcon Hunting Team received—was about the best one could get from the Russian military. Yet between the finest Russian hardware and its top-tier Western counterparts lay an unbridgeable chasm in ergonomic design and quality of detail.
The solution among the elite was simple: keep the usable issue items like firearms, radios, and night-vision devices, while buying their own tactical vests, helmets, and combat uniforms out of pocket.
That was why the Wagner veterans seen around Donetsk looked like a walking exhibition of mismatched East-West styles. It wasn't that they lacked money; it was that they were voting with their feet.
"Just to be safe, wrap some tape."
Night Cat pulled a roll of white electrical tape from his pocket, tore off strips, and wrapped them around everyone's left arms, including Chen Ge's.
Wagner patches and Russian flag insignias were completely out of the question, lest they draw trouble from regular Russian troops.
***
Voroshilovsky District.
It wasn't far from their hotel, merely a twenty-minute walk. Chen Ge and Lightbulb took the lead while Big Bear, Manhole Cover, and Night Cat followed behind. There were few pedestrians along the street, giving the area a quiet, somewhat desolate air.
Ever since the Russia-Ukraine conflict erupted, virtually every Donetsk resident with the means to do so had fled, mostly evacuating toward Rostov Oblast and farther into Krasnodar Krai.
Just last month, Russia had announced the annexation of four oblasts, including Donetsk, leaving the local situation delicate and tense.
Among those who remained, some passively accepted Russian citizenship, while others refused it, continuing to wait for a return to Ukrainian control.
Most people on the street were elderly folks, women, and children. Young men were scarce—they had either enlisted or were pulling overtime shifts in factories churning out artillery shells.
Turning onto Artyom Street, Chen Ge followed the house numbers until he found No. 47. Sure enough, it was a vintage hardware store that looked steeped in history.
The metal rolling shutter stood open. The shop covered roughly a hundred square meters. Behind a long counter made of welded angle iron and inset wooden planks sat a genuine leather executive chair.
A burly old man reclined in the seat, clad in black slacks, a plaid shirt, and an old-school, mid-length KGB-style leather coat. His hair was slicked straight back, and he sported the heavy, traditional beard of an Orthodox Christian. With a tablet in his right hand and a pipe in his left, he was leisurely browsing the news.
He looked to be in his sixties, his hair and beard turned entirely snowy white. Yet he carried an extraordinary presence, exuding an aura of wild, hardened ferocity that warned anyone against crossing him.
Chen Ge flashed a subtle hand sign to Lightbulb and the others, then stepped across the threshold. Hearing the footsteps, the old man turned his head. A flicker of surprise stirred in his deep, piercing eyes, and he asked in fluent Mandarin,
"Huaxia?"
Chen Ge's expression shifted slightly. *How did he tell? And how is his Chinese so good?*
"What makes you think I'm from Huaxia, and not Japanese or Korean?"
Fyodor looked Chen Ge up and down with genuine intrigue, as if looking at a rare curiosity.
And it was indeed rare—Chinese faces were an absolute rarity on the battlefields of Ukraine.
"A gut feeling. Are you with the Cook?"
Sensing an uncanny edge to the old man, Chen Ge didn't care to waste time chatting and directly stated his purpose:
"Nicholas I was an idiot!"
Hearing the passphrase, Fyodor's brow furrowed briefly, then smoothed back out.
"Oh? Who recommended you?"
"A friend!"
With a knowing, half-smile, Fyodor nodded. He laid down the tablet, stood up from behind the counter, and called toward Lightbulb and the others by the entrance, "Boys, don't you want to come inside?"
Lightbulb and the crew briskly stepped through the doorway.
Fyodor pressed the motor switch on the wall beside the entrance. The heavy rolling shutter rattled shut, and he turned to lead the way toward the backyard.
The five mercenaries seamlessly staggered their formations, instincts razor-sharp, right hands poised to draw their sidearms at a moment's notice.
Fyodor ushered them through the back door and out into a spacious courtyard.
The yard spanned roughly a hundred and eighty square meters, sheltered beneath a corrugated steel roof. Orderly stacks of wooden crates in various sizes lined the walls, and tethered in the corners on either side were two gigantic Caucasian Shepherd dogs.
The one on the left was iron-gray. Its mane was so dense it looked like a ruff of steel needles, tipped with white, bristling all the way from its jaw down to its chest.
The one on the right was pale yellow and even larger, with a shoulder height well over eighty centimeters—easily tall enough to pin a grown man flat if it reared up.
At the sight of Fyodor, both dogs wagged their tails like spinning pinwheels, leaping and bounding eagerly.
Yet the moment Chen Ge stepped past the rear threshold, both animals froze instantly.
The iron-gray dog's mane puffed outward as if hit by an electric current, standing on end from the back of its skull all the way to the root of its tail.
The pale yellow dog's four legs trembled uncontrollably. A high, reedy whimper squeezed from its throat—not a growl of aggression, but pure terror, like a helpless puppy that had just had its paw crushed underfoot.
It shrank back frantically, rattling its heavy iron chain. Its collar cut deep creases into the skin of its neck, yet it kept scrambling backward as if Chen Ge were some primal apex predator.
Fyodor's expression changed. He had raised these dogs on raw meat from puppyhood; they were fiercely vicious creatures that didn't flinch at gunfire or artillery blasts, nor would they hesitate to tear into bloodthirsty veterans fresh off the front lines.
Why on earth were they cowering so abjectly before this seemingly unremarkable young Chinese man, who at most carried himself with an imposing physique and presence?
Lightbulb, Big Bear, Manhole Cover, and Night Cat were equally baffled, utterly at a loss as to why the massive hounds were so terrified of Chen Ge.
Only Chen Ge knew the truth: in the eyes of those two beasts, he wasn't merely human—he was a monster walking in human skin.
He smiled faintly and teased, "Nice dogs you've got there. A bit timid, though."
Fyodor's mouth twitched. In dead earnest, he said, "Young man, Gorbachev and Khrushchev are not cowardly dogs. They are exceptionally brave. I take them hunting in Siberia every year. Between them, they have killed four adult brown bears and twelve wild boars weighing over three hundred kilos."
*Uh... is he serious with those names?*
*The Great Surrenderer and the Corn Tsar?*
Chen Ge offered an awkward yet polite smile. Just as he was about to speak, Fyodor abruptly asked, "Are you exceptionally strong?"
He continued, "Caucasian Shepherds are guardian dogs. Their instinct is territorial defense. When confronted with an unfamiliar threat, they attack; they don't flee. For them to be frightened like little girls cornered by thugs means the danger they sense far exceeds anything their minds can fathom fighting. Last year, when they faced a full-grown male Siberian tiger, they weren't even half this terrified."
Chen Ge glanced sideways at Khrushchev, who had retreated entirely into the doghouse in the right corner, and chuckled. "I suppose so. I can kill a bear too. With my fists, not a gun."
Fyodor didn't doubt for a second whether Chen Ge was bragging. The dogs' reaction alone was proof enough of this young Chinese fighter's terrifying strength.
Dogs couldn't lie, and they didn't pretend. If they were terrified, they were genuinely terrified.
A sharp gleam flared in Fyodor's eyes, an itch rising to test Chen Ge's mettle.
"Let's have a bout. If you can take me down within ten seconds, everything in my shop is yours at wholesale cost. How about it?"
Chapter 33