Chapter 64: The Flying Devil

The Soviet Northern Column was like a flayed beast. After enduring nearly two thousand agonizing casualties, they finally managed to smash through the Finnish machine-gun blockade using the sheer, suicidal force of human-wave tactics.

"Fast! Into the woods! Get off the road!"

The Soviet officers' voices had long since gone hoarse; some even carried a note of desperate weeping. To them, the bullets spitting from the Maxim guns were the fires of hell itself. They believed that if they could just dive into the gloomy forest, using the dense timber to block the enemy's sight, they might actually survive.

However, they were wrong.

For this group of Russian infantry, sunk waist-deep in snow, where every step required a total exhaustion of their strength, the forest was no safe haven. It was a three-dimensional, fully enclosed slaughterhouse.

This was the cafeteria for the Finnish ski troops.

In this deep night of minimal visibility, the soldiers' senses were severely impaired. Aside from the violent crunch of snow beneath their boots and the heavy panting of their comrades, they could see nothing.

But in Walter's vision, the world was transparent and burning.

Within his pupils, the pitch-black forest backdrop appeared as a deep, ghostly blue, while the thousands of struggling Soviet soldiers were transformed into vivid, dazzling orange-red silhouettes. This absolute visual superiority turned him into a hunter who moved with total impunity.

Walter stood at the edge of a high ridge. Thanks to the fresh wax, his skis reflected the cold moonlight with an icy sheen.

"The show begins," he murmured softly, giving a powerful thrust with his ski poles.

The weight of his Suomi submachine gun, Mosin-Nagant rifle, ammunition, and grenades added up to nearly twenty kilograms, pressing heavily on his frame. But in the face of the gravitational potential energy of a high-speed descent, this weight transformed into terrifying momentum.

Alpine Speed-Skiing!

In the eyes of an ordinary man, a slope littered with jagged rocks, fallen logs, and dense trees was a forbidden zone for skiers. But for Walter, enhanced by the Eye of Death, the gaps between every tree seemed to be hit by a slow-motion trigger, they widened infinitely, turning into clear, one-way lanes.

Hiss… hiss…

Walter maintained incredible coordination at high speed, keeping his center of gravity extremely low. He performed a textbook "Telemark" turn, his lead knee nearly touching the snow as he used the lean of his body to carve a perfect arc between two pines.

Ahead, a squad of Soviet soldiers was escorting a high-ranking staff officer carrying a briefcase. They seemed to hear the strange whistle of wind from their rear flank and spun around.

"There! Something's coming down!"

The moment the staff officer looked up, Walter had already reached the edge of a rocky outcrop acting as a natural jump. He didn't slow down; instead, his legs surged with power, and he took flight at top speed!

In that moment, Walter fully extended his body in mid-air. His white camouflage suit cut a haunting arc through the night.

Airborne. Bolt cycled. Reticle locked.

Bang!

The muzzle flash flickered through the dark forest like a passing meteor. The bullet vertically pierced the staff officer's cranium. In that brief moment of suspension, Walter's fingers deftly worked the bolt again, dropping an adjutant who was staring up in disbelief.

Thump!

Walter landed heavily, his skis sinking deep into the snow. The twenty kilograms of gear let out an unsettling thud upon impact. Walter felt his spine go numb from the shock, but he immediately transitioned into a forward roll to dissipate the force.

"He... he flew?"

A Soviet soldier rubbed his eyes. He had only seen a white shadow fly over his head, accompanied by two lethal cracks of a rifle.

"He's playing with us! That bastard is playing with us!" a Soviet Second Lieutenant roared into the darkness, losing his mind.

To these Russians, nearly frozen to death and barely able to crawl through the drifts, the Finn's movements were the ultimate provocation. They were struggling just to stay alive, yet this white ghost was using their deaths as a background for a stunt show!

"Bastard! Fire! Open fire!"

Dozens of rifles sprayed wildly into the dark. Tracers danced through the trees, snapping countless dead branches, but Walter had long since vanished into the night.

Crouching behind a tree, Walter panted heavily, his lungs burning from the intake of freezing air. Though the aerial maneuver was spectacular, the excessive weight had forced his young body into a state of protest.

"Whew... can't keep doing that," Walter felt the tremor in his thigh muscles. Showboating under this load was dangerous; a single mistake and he'd become a stationary target. More importantly, the Russians were now incensed.

"Since you're so angry, come and find me."

Walter stopped attempting high-energy jumps and instead pressed his center of gravity even lower and steadier. He began to use the stealth of the Telemark turn more frequently, prowling at the very edge of the Soviets' extremely limited vision.

Swoosh!

He glided silently between two Soviet soldiers. They felt nothing but a cold gust of wind against their necks. Before they could even turn, Walter had used a reverse-grip knife to slit one of their throats, vanishing instantly using his gliding momentum. This silent, deadly mobility in the dark was more demoralizing to the Soviets than his flying stunts.

"Where is he? He's gone again!"

The Soviet soldiers roared at the empty shadows, but Walter was already far away, searching for his next mark.

Soon, Walter spotted a Soviet Major huddled behind an overturned sled, frantically barking orders. The man's mouth, snapping open and shut as he bellowed, vented large clouds of hot, orange-red breath. In the ghostly blue world, that steam was like a lantern announcing his position.

Walter leaned forward, pressing his center of gravity to the limit. He used his knees to perfectly neutralize every vibration from the uneven terrain. His lower body moved like a wave following the topography, while his upper body remained astonishingly still.

Hiss—!

With another short, sharp change of direction, Walter used the momentum of the slope to cut a beautiful arc through the timber. He didn't grip his ski poles; instead, he leveled the cloth-wrapped Mosin-Nagant with a steady hand.

Glide. Correct. Predict.

The entire sequence was a single, fluid motion performed at high speed. His fingertip gently squeezed the trigger.

Bang!

The stock kicked against his shoulder. The massive recoil didn't make him waver; instead, the force was channeled through his body and into the forward momentum of his glide.

The bullet pierced the wind and snow, instantly erupting in a mist of dark red at the Major's brow. Before the despairing face could even lose its expression of rage, the man fell backward into a knee-deep snow pit.

One shot, one soul.

For the Russians trapped in the deep snow waiting for death, the forest tonight held more than just lethal cold. It held a "Flying Devil" who could weave through darkness and the domain of death as fast as a lightning bolt.