Chapter 126: Main Text Chapter 128 Dragon Scale Demon Armor

Main Text Chapter 128 Dragon Scale Demon Armor

The golden‑cast strange mask, having endured thousands of years of wear, still shone with golden light, and was basically identical to the mask we found in the jade coffin of the Xiang King's grand priest, except for the eye sockets; both had dragon horns, beast mouths, and fish‑tail‑shaped ear lugs. The former was worn by a person, while the mask that suddenly appeared at our side, spewing scarlet poisonous mist, was much larger—about the size of a big pot once used to cook rice in the old cafeteria.

Just that brief glimpse, I hadn't even had time to see clearly what it was, my heart gave a violent jump, and my intuition told me it wasn't a corpse; hidden behind the mask was a living being filled with hatred, its heavy breathing each exhalation producing a puff of red mist that had already enveloped its body, obscuring its full form.

At this critical moment, my body's instinctive reaction overrode thought; I shrank back and leapt onto the rock beside me to keep a safe distance from the opponent, while simultaneously turning the muzzle of my "Chicago Typewriter" and firing a burst at the thing in the red mist; the American MIAI submachine gun kept ejecting shells, issuing a deathly wail.

The fired bullets spread in a wave‑shaped fan, all embedding themselves in the dense red mist; the metallic impacts sounded continuously, as if the thing inside the mist were entirely covered in iron armor—I couldn't tell whether our volley had wounded it, and just as my body tumbled over the rock and landed, the MIAI's magazine was empty.

Pangzi and Shirley Yang on the other side also scattered and retreated at once; before one could speak, the congealed red mist suddenly dispersed, and the gleaming golden mask shot out from within. This time, using the cold blue light emitted by the female corpses in the water, I saw it clearly. The huge golden mask had only a single eye, with something like an eyeball rotating inside; the mask's mouth was shaped like a tiger's maw, which at this glance looked like a gateway to hell, revealing pink membranes that resembled the mouthparts of some insect. When the mouth opened wide, it was not the up‑and‑down motion of a proboscidean's jaws but spread outward on all sides, becoming square, and inside there was another identical small mouth. Though called small, it could easily swallow two or three living people, and inside there were no needle‑like teeth; instead, at each corner of the mouth there was a hard "flesh" tooth.

These features fully show that this colossal creature is a giant insect; its rear body is covered by an extremely thick carapace, beneath which countless constantly moving maxillipeds—each as thick as a human leg—form leg‑like claws. Its massive, sturdy build rivals the blue‑scaled giant python beneath Mount Zhelong, and it is also clad in thick scale‑shaped bronze armor covered in verdigris. In the damp, dark Gourd Cave, this armor has peeled off in many places, some parts turned to mud, revealing bright‑shining scarlet carapace underneath that seems harder than steel plate; bullets striking it release large amounts of yellow fluid, while other rounds hit the bronze dragon scales or blast several large holes in the golden mask. Yet this beast is simply too huge, and its outer red insect shell is as tough as iron or steel, so even the formidable power of the MIAI seems unlikely to pose a direct threat.

What is this? A worm? An animal? A "tianlong" (another name for centipede)? It doesn't resemble any of those—a tianlong should be flat, but this creature's body is round and bulky, with only one eye. Who put the golden mask on its head and the dragon‑scale bronze shell? Damn it, everything we've run into in Yunnan is just huge.

In a flash, there was no time to think further—whatever it was, I'd deal with it first. I saw the monster burst from the mist, its huge mouth behind the golden mask lunging at me; my submachine gun was out of ammo, I dared not meet it head‑on, and behind me lay underground water filled with countless floating corpses, leaving no retreat. I threw myself to the ground and rolled to avoid the blade's edge, and in the cave's chilling blue glow I saw a golden flash strike the wolf‑tooth‑shaped translucent rock beside me, unleashing a deafening roar. I sucked in a cold breath, pushed off the rock with both feet, and used that kick to slide my body backward.

I hadn't expected a rock to block from above; my climbing helmet struck the stone and I didn't slide far. The giant insect beneath the golden mask missed its first strike, then immediately launched a second attack. I silently cursed—my MIAI drum magazine and spare magazine were in Pangzi's backpack, and I held only an empty gun, so I grabbed my ice axe to defend myself.

Seeing me in trouble, nearby Shirley Yang and Pangzi opened fire—she with the Chicago Typewriter, he with the Sword Might air rifle and pistol—blasting away at the giant insect's head.

The massive insect wearing the golden mask and clad in dragon‑scale bronze armor was suppressed by the furious hail of bullets, repeatedly drawing its head back; from the cracks in its bronze shell and from its mouth it continuously spewed red poisonous mist, instantly vanishing into the haze and making it hard to aim.

Red mist filled the cave, visibility dropping sharply; I seized the moment and shouted to Pangzi, "Little Fatty, ammo!"

Pangzi instantly grabbed a fully loaded drum from his carry‑bag and threw it to me; I had just reached out to catch it, not yet had time to swap the drum onto my submachine gun, when the red mist suddenly cleared and the monster surged out like a fire dragon from the clouds, lunging at me. I was furious—this guy seemed to have taken a personal grudge against me, always charging at me—but I kept a clear head: anger is fine, but panic and tension must be avoided, for life and death often hinge on a split second.

I immediately resolved not to dodge or flee, betting my reload speed against the mask's lunging speed in a life‑or‑death gamble. Pangzi and Shirley Yang had just expended their ammo in a rapid volley and were now reloading; seeing my reckless move, they were stunned, forgetting where they stood and just stared blankly.

The experience of surviving countless brushes with death on the front lines finally gave me the edge—I was only a fraction of a second faster than the opponent. As I raised the barrel, the monster's huge mouth was already at my face; I had no leisure to judge who was quicker, I simply pulled the trigger on feel, and the Chicago Typewriter began firing almost with its muzzle pressed inside the golden mask, its signature old‑typewriter clatter ringing out quickly.

I heard a dull, muffled howl in my ears; my body felt as if struck by a huge iron plate, the golden mask knocking me backward two somersaults, I kept recoiling until I hit the rock wall, every bone aching—without elbow and knee guards my joints would have been shattered—and it felt as if my five viscera and six bowels had flipped twice, leaving me unable to breathe.

My gamble seemed to have succeeded; a long string of bullets—at least ten or more—had apparently all struck the giant monster's mouth, the red poisonous mist retreated to the corner of the Gourd Cave, growing thicker, and there was no further movement or sound.

Pangzi was delighted and shouted at me, "Excellent, Lao Hu, you're simply too valiant! On behalf of the Central Military Commission I congratulate you; our army will award you the honorary title of Special‑Class Combat Hero after Huang Jiguang and Yang Gensi, making you the third person in history to receive this honor while still alive—a legendary figure."

Shirley Yang shouted from the other side, "What valor? You're throwing away your life—utter madness."

Hearing Pangzi's nonsense made me furious; I thought, "Who the hell is he trying to squeeze? A Special‑Class Combat Hero who hasn't died honorably, and he's complaining I'm not dying fast enough?" I wanted to retort, but my whole body ached and I couldn't speak; I stretched my arms and legs—luckily I hadn't suffered any serious external injury, though internal damage was another matter.

Suddenly I felt awkward, as if something was missing; I frantically patted myself and when my hand touched my face a cold chill ran through me—damn, in that life‑and‑death struggle my gas mask had been knocked off, and cold sweat instantly poured out. Although during the fight life and death had hung on my breath, I had felt in control, not overly afraid, but without the mask even if I found it right away I'd probably be done for; the antidotes we carried were only for ordinary snake venom, and this red mist—even if the medical sage Hua Tuo were resurrected—would likely defy cure. How much poison have I inhaled? Probably plenty. Thinking of life and death, my mind tangled like knotted yarn; I wondered what the poisoning symptoms would be, where I'd feel uncomfortable, and the more I thought, the worse everything felt. It's over, it's over—this time, Old Master Hu, I'm really going to kick the bucket. Damn it, all because of Pangzi, using that "Special‑Class Combat Hero" nonsense to curse me.

Shirley Yang also noticed my gas mask was missing, rushed over anxiously and asked, "How did the gas mask come off? Where do you feel uncomfortable?"

Hearing Shirley Yang's urgent tone change, my heart suddenly swelled with emotion; thinking I was about to die heroically and forever part from her, my limbs went cold and I slumped to the ground, telling her, "I really can't go on this time—I can't even say what's wrong, because right now nothing feels right; it looks like the poison has spread throughout my body, probably seeped into the marrow and penetrated all nine orifices; in just a moment I may only have a few last words left to say."

Pangzi also rushed over, one hand gripping mine tightly, the other pressing my lips shut, choking up as he said, "Commander Hu, you must absolutely not say your last words—you haven't seen the movies where revolutionaries who took bullets but didn't die still ended up dead; anyone who has a lot of final lines, after settling big and small matters and the month's party dues, is sure to kick the bucket."

I shoved Pangzi's hand away from my mouth and, in pain, told him, "Comrades, what time is it now? You still won't let me speak my last few words—do you think I want to die? If there's anything you shouldn't know, I'd die with my eyes open."