Chapter 1344 - 436: Damn It, You’re Attacking Your Own Side! (Part 3)

Chapter 1344: Chapter 436: Damn It, You’re Attacking Your Own Side! (Part 3)

But a few officers with higher education levels began to notice something was wrong.

Because that fighter jet was obviously not a transport plane, and its flying altitude had never decreased.

They were the first to react, sprinting madly towards the entrance of the bunker.

Meanwhile, the other soldiers were momentarily stunned, unsure of the officers’ actions, but they soon regretted it.

As the fighter-bomber streaked overhead, dropping a string of small black dots, everyone’s expressions changed.

"FUCK!"

"Run!"

The panicked crowd scattered like frightened rats fleeing wildly, while the cluster bombs fragmented at low altitude and hurled towards the ground, the bombing range nearly covering the entire prisoner of war camp.

The ground, hardened through the prisoners’ painstaking efforts, was blasted into large craters, shattered dust thrown hundreds of meters high, dormitories turned to ruins, the cafeteria collapsed, even the dream pavilion, library, and basketball court built from the prisoners’ funds were reduced to ashes in the fiery explosions.

This wave of bombing successfully turned the no-casualty camp into one with over a hundred casualties.

They didn’t know the story of the prisoner of war camp.

And they even less understood how this seemingly insignificant dream pavilion had greatly impacted the Lords’ reputation.

Although rescuing you could salvage some public opinion, that’s too troublesome; it’s easier to say afterwards that you all were cruelly killed by Horizon Corporation.

The Lords lack the patience and time.

But sometimes, electronic devices are incredibly durable, especially cameras powered by reserve batteries.

The soldiers came out joyously to welcome, yet fled like desperate dogs; their meticulously built POW camp collapsing amid bombs...

All the footage was recorded, without exception.

"Why! Why did they do that!"

Following Henry and others into the air raid shelter, the terror of narrowly escaping death was felt once again.

He roared furiously at the air.

Clearly, the location of the POW camp had been published online, even his family kept urging him to return to Europe, the army couldn’t be unaware.

There’s only one possibility, that fighter jet intentionally bombed the camp knowing this.

These people are obviously your soldiers!

If you don’t rescue them, at least don’t bombard them!

Then what is the point of the information he released?

Doesn’t that make him the killer responsible for those soldiers’ deaths?

An unspeakable pain rooted in Henry’s heart, he squatted on the ground, holding his head, crying bitterly; his friends beside him didn’t know how to comfort him.

Because even they were confused.

Reading about someone or a group of people dying in books, dreams, or villas didn’t feel real.

It was merely numbers.

But when you truly watch a group of previously lively, personable people, who laughed and talked with you, die before your eyes, and you could even say you were the cause of their death.

Then as long as there’s a shred of empathy or emotional capacity, it’s impossible to feel nothing.

What have you done?

In their pain and confusion, new emotions were born, a flame suddenly ignited.

That was anger.

Anger at their families, anger at the European Community, anger at that cold, unfeeling society.

The European POWs who narrowly escaped death seemed drained of their strength, collapsing to the ground, covered in dust and many with injuries.

But compared to physical wounds, their inner scars were deeper.

And the Cuban POWs who first escaped to the underground bunker said nothing, but they felt uncomfortable watching the European POWs, once slightly arrogant, now utterly destitute.

If even they are like this, where can we go?

Even if Europe eventually wins this war, will they spare us?

If they had even a shred of optimism before, now, even that is gone.

In contrast, they suddenly recalled the classes the guards frequently gave them during this period.

Previously, they scoffed at it as a waste of time.

What brotherhood of classes, what proletariat, what struggle for liberation...

Yet now, they seemed to understand it a bit more.

Nothing teaches better than reality.

No class compares to experience.

Even the Cuban officers lost hope in the Europeans.

Even if they were rescued, what difference would it make?

They’d just be thrown back to the front lines as cannon fodder.

Instead of continuing to live aimlessly like before, better to choose the future path on their own.

At least in the POW camp, they truly felt like living as humans, being asked their dreams for the first time, knowing the taste of meat for the first time, being respected for the first time...

"Guard."

Several Cuban POWs pushed through the crowd, finding the guard maintaining order in the dim bunker.

"What’s wrong? Are you injured too?"

"No."

The Cuban POWs exchanged glances and said.

"We’ve made up our minds, can we join you?"

"Of course."

The guard looked at them, his tone comforting.

"As long as you’re willing to turn back, it’s never too late."

He opened his arms, giving each Cuban soldier a big hug, one by one.

Laying down the knife and becoming a Buddha isn’t about simply putting down the knife.

On the contrary, putting down the knife marks the beginning of atonement, facing and repaying all your sins, even paying with your life.

This feeling of accepted redemption even brought them to tears.

Once the first group led the way, many more Cuban and even European POWs joined in.

No help for it; only when you become the victim or a third party do you realize how beastly you once were.