"Captain! We—we're surrounded!!"
The cabin, which only moments ago had regained a hint of warmth and life thanks to a bowl of hot soup and the relief of survival, was instantly frozen back to absolute zero.
The Howling Commandos veterans—who had been bragging, joking, and complaining that the black bread could double as a brick—suddenly looked as if someone had pressed the pause button on them all at once.
Dugan stood there with his canteen raised, mouth open, forgetting to drink.
Dernier had jerky stuffed in his mouth, cheeks puffed out, forgetting to swallow.
Surrounded.
On the battlefield, those three words were practically a personal summons from the Grim Reaper.
Especially in the middle of these godforsaken snow mountains—cut off from supplies, low on ammunition, facing enemies several times their number, and with tanks involved. Tanks—those unreasonable iron turtles.
This wasn't just one foot in the grave.
This was lying flat inside the coffin, waiting for HYDRA's bastards to come over, put the lid on, and hammer in the nails.
"Why the hell are you panicking?! Everyone straighten up!"
A steady shout, like a thunderclap, split the suffocating silence in two.
Steve Rogers.
Captain America.
Somehow, he was already standing in the center of the cabin.
Under the dim firelight, his blue combat uniform seemed to glow with its own holy aura, instantly becoming the pillar everyone leaned on.
"Damn… Captain really does have main-character energy," Levi muttered inwardly from the corner where he was playing dead.
Honestly, the whole American spiritual-leader vibe was dialed in perfectly. If this were the future, he'd be a top-tier idol—wave a hand and fans would line up from New York to Los Angeles.
Steve strode up to Jones, who was on the verge of collapsing, and firmly gripped his shoulder. His eyes—bluer than the sky—locked onto Jones's.
"Jones. Look at me. Take a deep breath," Steve said calmly, each word clear and forceful.
"Now tell me—how many enemies? What's their equipment? Where exactly are they?"
The voice wasn't loud, but it carried an unquestionable authority. Jones's violently trembling body actually began to steady.
"Reporting, Captain!" Jones snapped to attention, as if courage had been injected straight into his spine.
"I saw it myself! At least two full battalions! There are Tiger tank tracks in the snow—more than one! And—and their blue energy weapons! Their encirclement stretches from the eastern valley all the way to the western cliffs. Every route down the mountain is blocked!"
Two battalions.
Tiger tanks.
HYDRA energy weapons.
Each phrase was like an ice hammer smashing into everyone's chest.
"Fuck…" Dugan, with his trademark mustache and usually carefree grin, now wore a face dark as iron.
Crunch. He crushed an empty can in his hand and cursed under his breath.
"Those HYDRA assholes—are they insane? They mobilized an entire mountain task force for us? For a dozen guys? Hell, when did we get this valuable?"
"Heh. Not us."
A lazy, mocking voice drifted out of the shadows.
Everyone turned.
Logan—the man who radiated pure animal danger—had stood up at some point. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigar against the rough wall and carefully tucked it back into his jacket pocket, like it was something precious.
He strolled to the window, lifted a corner of the ragged curtain, and squinted outside.
"They're here for those two treasures."
He jerked his chin—first toward Steve in the center of the room, then toward Levi in the corner, looking sickly and half-dead.
"One's a living Captain America—the national symbol, the only successful product of the Super Soldier Program," Logan said with a cruel grin.
"And the other is some goddamn freak who can conjure energy out of thin air and blow their base to hell."
He glanced at Levi, eyes sharp with scrutiny.
"Kid, your head's worth more than the Captain's. You really think they'd let us walk?"
The words were rude.
But they were brutally real.
The air in the cabin froze again.
Right. What did this squad have?
Captain America—a walking legend.
And Levi… a mysterious existence who looked like he might drop dead at any moment.
If HYDRA had even half a brain, they'd pay any price to bury them all right here in the snow.
"Falsworth, count every round of ammo and every explosive we have left—down to the last bullet."
"Dugan, bring the map. Now."
Steve's voice rang out again.
Still calm. Still steady. As if the ones surrounded by multiple battalions weren't them—but the poor bastards down the mountain.
Ignoring the despair that would have crushed ordinary men, he began issuing orders, organizing what looked like an impossible breakout.
The results came back quickly—cold and merciless.
"Captain…" Falsworth said bitterly,
"It's bad. Average ammo per man—less than three magazines. Grenades—eight total. As for C4… all we have combined is under a kilo."
That much firepower wouldn't even slow two battalions.
A probing attack alone would wipe them out.
Yet Steve merely nodded, no disappointment on his face. He took the messy military map from Dugan and spread it on the only half-decent table in the cabin.
A crude contour map, marked with red and blue pencil from their reconnaissance.
Steve's finger moved slowly across the paper, calm and precise, studying every ridge and ravine.
Finally, his finger stopped—hard—at the northwest corner.
A symbol marked there.
A sheer cliff. Extremely dangerous.
"Here," he said firmly. "This is the only gap in their encirclement."
"My God, Captain—that's a cliff!" Dugan leaned in, disbelief written all over his face.
"I scouted it in daylight. It's at least three hundred meters straight down—jagged rocks at the bottom! No one survives a fall like that. We can't get down!"
"I know," Steve replied, eyes never leaving the map.
"But because we can't go down, this will be the weakest point in their defenses."
"We don't have a choice."
He looked up sharply, sweeping his gaze across every man in the room.
Those blue eyes burned like twin, unquenchable flames.
"There are only two paths in front of us.
Either we huddle here like lambs waiting for slaughter, until HYDRA's tanks grind us into meat paste—
or we go out like soldiers, strike where they least expect it, and carve ourselves a way through."
"I choose the second."
"What about you?"
A brief silence.
Then—
"Hell yeah!" Logan grinned first, wild and bloodthirsty delight flashing across his face.
Shing! He pulled a hunting knife from his boot and spun it deftly between his fingers.
"I've been itching for a fight. Perfect chance to sharpen my claws on those bastards' bones."
"I'm with you, Captain!"
"To hell with it—let's take as many of them with us as we can!"
The Howling Commandos were fully ignited now, their fighting spirit roaring back to life under Steve and Logan's ferocity.
They were veterans clawed out of piles of corpses. Afraid of death—but even more afraid of dying like cowards.
If death was inevitable, then they'd go out in a blaze.
"Good." Steve nodded.
Then he turned and walked over to the one man who had said nothing the entire time—Levi, leaning against the wall, breathing heavily.
"Levi," Steve said softly as he crouched in front of him, voice gentle, almost afraid to shatter something fragile.
"I know you're exhausted. Your energy's been pushed past the limit. You don't need to take part in the breakout."
"I just need one last favor from you."
Levi slowly lifted his eyelids and met Steve's gaze—full of trust and expectation.
Damn it…
Something twisted in Levi's chest.
This guy was way too good at this. That look, that tone—almost made Levi feel guilty for keeping up the act.
But rule number one for a transmigrator:
Never let your persona collapse.
If you're acting, act it through to the end.
"Help me listen."
"I need you to be this team's eyes and ears. I can tell—you're like me. Your perception is far sharper than normal people's."
Levi looked at Steve's sincere face and weakly nodded. In a hoarse, near-dead whisper, he replied:
"I'll… do my best."
Then he slowly closed his eyes, letting his head rest against the wall.
This time, he wasn't pretending.
He poured every last shred of his remaining mental energy into his hearing.
Outside, night had fully fallen.
Steve's voice was cold as ancient ice.
"We move after dark."
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