Russian tactics were simple and brutal, relying entirely on overwhelming firepower. The standard playbook was artillery preparation → armored assault → infantry mop-up, on endless repeat, rarely dabbling in fancy maneuvers.
They were not adept at nuanced small-unit infiltration, night raids, or urban clearing operations, as those demanded rigorous training and secure communications.
Russian forces preferred to level an enemy position before advancing; precision strikes simply were not their forte.
To sum it up: Russians fought like Nameless from *The Storm Riders*—playing the erhu and slacking off when at full health, only to roam the map aggressively at critical health, walking a tightrope on the razor's edge of survival. If they didn't turn an easy winning position into an uphill battle first, they didn't even know how to fight.
Moreover, in Russian military doctrine, the mission had to be accomplished at all costs. If completing the objective cost an entire company, then an entire company was spent, resulting in absurdly high casualty ratios.
This was a wartime philosophy inherited from the Soviet era: casualties were inevitable in war, and the objective always came first.
Crude and rough? Suits him fine—he'd be just as crude!
As long as the objective was met, what did a few more sacrifices matter? Dying for the motherland was the supreme honor!
He would just "weepingly" pocket his salary and bonuses, accumulating real command experience along the way.
He could do without the personnel retention bonus!
In Wagner, that bonus was awarded to commanders whose companies kept casualty rates below a certain threshold—usually under twenty percent.
The idea was to incentivize completing the mission while showing at least a modicum of regard for manpower so soldiers didn't die too quickly, sparing the trouble of constant replenishment.
Giving up that bonus was no big deal. The real money lay in destroying or capturing Ukrainian military equipment—armored vehicles, tanks, artillery, drones—and NATO-supplied gear paid out even more handsomely.
Taking out a T-72 currently yielded a bounty of $1,450.
Trench offered a few more parting instructions before ending the transmission. Chen Ge was just reaching for his cigarette pack when he heard a Ukrainian voice shouting in despair and grief:
"I am Captain Kyrylo Budanov, commander of the 3rd Company, 5th Battalion, 58th Brigade! Please allow us to surrender!"
The gunfire died down. Octopus roared, "Throw out all your weapons! Lie flat on the ground with your hands behind your head!"
Chen Ge stood up and barked at Lightbulb and Night Cat, "Eat, eat, eat—is stuffing your faces all you know how to do? Get on watch, now! Focus on the southwest for incoming Ukrainian reinforcements."
"Oh," Lightbulb and Night Cat grunted. They shoved the freshly unwrapped chocolates into their mouths, scrambled to their feet, and dashed over to the window to stand guard.
The two mercenaries from Detachment 9 exchanged a glance and took up positions by the window as well, watching the southwest on their own initiative.
Chen Ge walked over to the room where Octopus's team was stationed. The three Ukrainian soldiers hiding in the adjoining room first tossed out their machine gun, assault rifles, and sidearms, then stripped off their tactical vests and flung them out through the doorway. Creeping out past the threshold, they lay flat on the floor with their hands clasped behind their heads.
Octopus made a gesture. Two mercenaries under his command stepped up to the breach in the wall, raised their rifles, and fired a burst, killing two of the soldiers on the spot and leaving only Budanov alive.
Budanov seemed to have anticipated this outcome. His eyes were dull and numb, and he lay frozen on the ground.
Wagner's internal performance metrics didn't track prisoner counts. Aside from high-value targets like commissioned officers, capturing ordinary Ukrainian soldiers earned no bounties.
On top of that, prisoners required dedicated guards, food, water, and transport to the rear—all logistical expenses shouldered by the assault squad itself. Who in their right mind would bother?
Unless it was a mass surrender, rank-and-file Ukrainian soldiers were invariably eliminated on the spot!
Chen Ge didn't consider Octopus cruel.
When Ukrainian forces captured Wagner mercenaries, their methods were far more brutal—torture and execution!
He recalled that in April of the coming year, after an audio recording of Ukrainian troops executing wounded Wagner prisoners was leaked, the Cook would issue an order across the front: take no prisoners, eliminate them all on site. For a time, this order was enforced among the assault units in Bakhmut, inadvertently bolstering Ukrainian combat resistance.
Surrendering meant certain death, so they fought all the harder.
"Phew... finally wiped out these dogs!"
Octopus cursed under his heavy breathing. He pulled back his balaclava to reveal a rugged, weather-beaten face, turning around with a grin to Chen Ge at the doorway. "Sledgehammer, Crosshair, the deputy commander of our Second Assault Group, ordered me to take commands from you and help hold this damn building. But I'm dying to know—how did you pull it off?"
Chen Ge said nothing. He took a few steps forward, raised his left fist, and drove it casually into the partition wall.
*Thud!* The wall caved in, leaving a shallow crater from which a fine web of spiderweb fractures radiated outward.
The air went dead silent. Octopus and his two mercenaries froze like statues, their eyes bulging as if ready to pop from their sockets.
What kind of monster was this? Was he even human?
Even Viper and Corn, who already knew Chen Ge was formidable, stood dumbfounded, staring at him in utter disbelief.
Over the past few days, Chen Ge had shared training tutorial videos in their group chat. They had studied and debated them intensely, asking various Chinese acquaintances for advice, only to receive the same answer across the board: these so-called fundamentals were basic stuff, easily found in droves with a quick search online.
Though they hadn't said anything aloud, they had harbored some resentment, suspecting Chen Ge was blowing smoke and withholding real martial arts out of fear that teaching the apprentices would starve the master.
Now, they no longer thought that. With strength like Chen Ge's, he had no reason to fear being surpassed!
Even someone with zero knowledge of Chinese martial arts knew reaching Chen Ge's level was anything but simple.
Regardless, they would have to train diligently from now on. Even if they couldn't become as strong as Chen Ge, reaching just a tenth of his capability would make them formidable.
Beneath their shaken gazes, Chen Ge withdrew his fist. The crisp imprint of knuckles left in the wall sent a chill down everyone's spine.
He turned to stare at Octopus and asked mildly, "Any more questions?"
Jolted back to reality, Octopus shook his head vigorously. His eyes were utterly clear now; every shred of doubt and dissatisfaction had been shattered into dust by that single strike, replaced entirely by reverent awe.
"Please don't misunderstand, sir! I wasn't questioning your ability earlier—I was just genuinely curious. I will follow your orders!"
Russia's harsh environment had shaped a national ethos centered around the cult of the strongman. People naturally inclined toward trusting powerful figures who could protect them.
Therefore, trying to win over Russians with gentleness and courtesy never worked; it only invited people to see you as a pushover. You had to be more ruthless and savage than they were.
A tiny display of raw power had Octopus immediately switching to honorifics. This was the proper way to handle Russians.
Octopus asked curiously, "Sledgehammer, are you a Chinese citizen, or are you of Chinese descent with foreign citizenship?"
"A Chinese citizen. Joined Wagner last August."
As Chen Ge spoke, something in the pile of weapons surrendered by the Ukrainian soldiers caught the corner of his eye—a Colt 1911.
He walked over, picked it up, and examined it closely. Walnut grip panels, intact high-temperature bluing, and when he racked the slide, virtually no signs of wear inside.
What was more, the serial numbers on the slide, barrel, and frame were all matching: 14629.
This was a low-serial-number military-issue M1911 produced between late 1912 and 1913. On the collector's market, it could fetch eight to nine thousand dollars.
Where on earth did the Ukrainians get this?
Surprise flashed across Chen Ge's eyes. Without tipping his hand, he rummaged through the tactical belt on the ground and found a magazine with a different serial number. Straightening up, he said, "I'm quite fond of 1911s. I'm keeping this piece. You don't mind, do you, Octopus?"
Octopus assumed it was just a run-of-the-mill 1911, so naturally he raised no objection.
Even if he had known its real value, he wouldn't have dared express the slightest discontent anyway.
Patting the Glock 21 resting in the quick-draw holster at his hip, he chuckled. "I prefer high-capacity handguns. An antique 1911 like that is only good for a collection, not the battlefield."
Chapter 55