Chapter Eight: General Zakhaev

The female secretary standing nearby chuckled softly, saying,
“Whenever the general says that, it’s always when he’s confident of success.”
The President rubbed his brow to dispel his fatigue, smiling as he replied,
“We must also deal with those reporters who thrive on chaos, as well as the diplomats from our old rivals!”
...
16:17—General Zakayev arrived at Stran Middle School.
On Zakayev’s orders, the hostage rescue command center had already been moved into the school building.
The bodies at the school gate had long since been cleared away by the police, leaving only some dried, stubborn bloodstains that could not be scrubbed clean. Military police maintained order at the entrance, surrounded by anxious parents who had come after hearing the news. They clutched their weapons and pressed angrily toward the soldiers, desperate to save their children, desperate for revenge.
Among the crowd, one furious parent raised his rifle and fired into the sky. Inside the gate, a government official repeatedly explained the progress of the rescue operation to the crowd, his face pale, urging them over and over to trust the authorities.
As the crowd swelled and tempers flared, the military police guarding the entrance wiped sweat from their brows, uncertain how the situation would unfold, but bound to follow their orders.
At that moment, the general’s motorcade finally arrived.
General Zakayev, his hair white as snow, pushed open the car door with force, brushing aside the aide who tried to help him, and strode directly toward the crowd.
Seeing the general walking into a gathering where anger threatened to overwhelm reason, his aide was frantic, quickly following and instructing nearby soldiers to form a protective cordon.
“Stay back! Let me go alone!”
Zakayev shouted, his tone sharp.
None of the soldiers expected such a powerful voice from an elder nearing seventy; they hesitated, uncertain whether to advance or retreat.
The aide glanced at Zakayev’s expression and wisely stepped aside, knowing that if he tried to stop the general again, he’d risk being struck by Zakayev himself.
“I am Zakayev. On my honor as a soldier, I promise that by this time tomorrow, I will bring your children safely back to you—without so much as a scratch.”
Zakayev called out to the crowd as he walked toward the school gate, his aide and soldiers following quietly behind, dwarfed by the general’s commanding presence.
Someone in the crowd shouted,
“Look, it’s General Zakayev—the hero who led us to victory in the Second Western War! I’ve only ever seen him on television before.”
Impressed by Zakayev’s authority, the crowd grew silent, parting to let him through, offering respectful salutes as he passed.
With measured steps, the general entered the school. At the threshold, he suddenly turned, faced the crowd, and placed his right fist to his chest, declaring,
“Trust me! Go home now and don’t hinder our rescue efforts.”
The crowd murmured among themselves, unconsciously clearing an even wider path.
Without another word, Zakayev strode toward the school building. From this moment, he was in charge of the rescue operation.
Upon reaching the command center’s office, Zakayev pushed aside the soldier who hurriedly offered him a cup of water and ordered,
“Notify all departments to meet here in five minutes—I want the real situation inside the auditorium!”

The soldier hurried off to relay the orders, dropping the cup in his haste, its spilled water soaking the general’s boots.
Zakayev paid no mind to such details, turning to his nervous aide with another command:
“How are the negotiations with the KB faction? Summon the negotiation team for a detailed report!”
The aide rushed out, knowing the general was a man of action and that any delay would earn a harsh rebuke.
Soon, the makeshift command center—a teacher’s office—was packed with people.
...
At that moment, Chen Qi, freshly awakened, had no inkling of the butterfly effect set in motion by General Zakayev’s arrival. He stretched comfortably, glanced at the still-bright sky outside, and resumed his thoughts.
On his finger, the ring named “Youth’s Resolve” reflected golden sunlight. Unconsciously, Chen Qi made a decision.
It was a bold one, not particularly likely to succeed—in fact, it felt a bit like sending help from afar. Yet, once he resolved to act, a sense of clarity swept over him. He liked that feeling, and was willing to pursue it.
“General Zakayev wants to see you.”
The soldier who entered interrupted Chen Qi’s contemplation. Seeing the sweat-soaked uniform from the soldier’s hurried arrival, Chen Qi quickly put on his shoes. Zakayev was a key figure in his plan.
Walking beside the soldier, Chen Qi asked quietly,
“What kind of man is General Zakayev?”
The soldier slowed his steps, reverence in his eyes as he answered,
“He’s the god of war for our Northern Alliance. He led us to victory in the Second Western War. He’s a traditional, iron-willed, and resolute soldier.”
Noticing Chen Qi’s awe at the general’s reputation, the soldier added,
“But don’t be afraid. Though he’s ruthless to enemies, he’s like the sun—warm and caring—to his own people.”
As they approached the command center, Chen Qi heard the general’s roar from inside:
“Impossible! We cannot withdraw from the Stan region. The President will not agree! The Northern Alliance will not agree!”
The official negotiating with the KB faction was sweating profusely, hastily adding,
“They insist there’s no room for negotiation—otherwise, they’ll execute a hostage every three hours, at random.”
The general raised his head in anguish, took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly, enunciating each word:
“What else do they demand?”
The official kept his head down, unable to meet the general’s gaze, sweat dripping onto the floor. He continued timidly,
“They want us to release the prisoners captured in March this year, and to recognize Stan’s independence.”
“Bang!”
Zakayev slammed his fist heavily on the command table, the veins in his arm bulging with anger.
After a long silence, he waved the negotiation team away and ordered the officers to report the situation on the ground.

A middle-aged officer in full gear stepped forward, saluted, and began:
“There are about six hundred hostages in the auditorium—over seventy percent are students, the rest are school leaders and parents attending the opening ceremony. Some parents are holding infants, having come for another child’s ceremony.”
His voice was steady as he continued:
“The KB faction occupies the entire two-story auditorium, numbering just over twenty. They control all shooting points and fire at anything moving outside.”
“What about the students?”
Zakayev glanced at Chen Qi standing by the door, then asked.
“To intimidate and pressure the government, they slaughtered every student outside the auditorium they could see after taking control. Dozens are dead. Only about a dozen escaped from the playground, and then there’s the student rescued from the school building.”
The soldier continued his report meticulously.
Zakayev fell silent for a moment, cleared his throat, and looked at the other soldiers, his voice devoid of emotion:
“Who can tell me the situation inside the auditorium?”
A soldier who had been waiting intently brightened, starting his report:
“The doors and windows are tightly shut, with only a few firing slits. Drones peering inside show hostages crouched together, with KB members mingling among them.”
“Even worse...”
The reporting soldier swallowed, adding,
“They forced students to strap explosives to themselves and to others, with several KB members holding the detonators.
“There’s something else I’m not sure I should report here.”
He hesitated, seeking Zakayev’s permission.
“Speak! The sky won’t fall.”
Zakayev’s voice was calm and steady, marked by his unique authority.
“Perhaps fearing resistance from strong hostages, they selected fifteen of the most robust and took them upstairs to be shot, then pushed their bodies outside...”
“Boom!”
Those present watched the elderly commander, renowned for his composure on the Western front, kick a chair violently across the room.
Meanwhile, Chen Qi was worried about Andrei’s safety. Though they’d only met that day, the blond youth’s side kick, honed over two years of martial arts, had left a deep impression.
He didn’t want to see this young man—who claimed three years of training—die here!