The slaves had never received any training, and they couldn’t even tell the right direction.

  The only thing they knew was—run!

  But not everyone would make it to the end alive.

  Some fell halfway, struggling desperately in the mud, and before they could rise, they were trampled by their comrades from behind.

  Others tried to discard the explosives and flee, but the soldiers mixed in with the ranks noticed immediately.

  The soldiers quickly charged forward, kicking him over and forcefully pinning him to the ground.

  Then, a knife swiftly slashed across his ear, blood and an ear splattering onto the dirt.

  "Want to die? Fine, but take the explosives there first."

  The soldier’s voice was cold and unquestionable.

  The slave staggered to his feet, blood flowing from his torn ear, soaking his tattered clothes as it ran down his neck.

  His face twisted in agony, his eyes filled with pain and fear, his body trembling from blood loss and violent shivers.

  But he had no choice; the soldier's indifferent gaze bore down on him.

  He could only grit his teeth, suppressing the dizziness, and stagger toward the city wall.

  Everyone was swept into this charge, like debris in a flood, washed and crushed by the raging tide of the battlefield, with no other choice.

  The mud underfoot mixed with broken bones, and every step felt like stepping on the corpse of a stranger.

  Hard, soft, broken...

  Elo dared not think about what it was; he even shut off his transcendent perception—he didn’t want to see anymore.

  The air filled his lungs, carrying the nauseating stench of blood, gunpowder, and decay.

  Everyone kept their heads down, unable to see ahead, only seeing—

  The backs of their companions, exposed shoulders, skin soaked with sweat, and muscles taut from despair.

  Bang! Bang—bang!

  The defenders on the wall finally opened fire, and the gunshots echoed intermittently across the battlefield.

  The sound was like an ominous funeral bell, ringing low in the wind and sand.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Elo caught sight of a slave desperately running, and in the next moment, his body froze.

  A red blood flower blossomed on his chest.

  His gaze locked, as though his soul was still running, but his body was forcibly dragged away by death, leaving reality behind.

  Then, he fell straight down, splashing muddy blood, swallowed by the tide of the charge.

  The echo of the gunfire hadn't faded, and yet another body fell.

  More people dropped, as if an invisible reaper was gradually devouring the runners.

  Those hit by the bullets didn’t die immediately.

  They convulsed, struggled, coughed up foamy blood, yet were ruthlessly trampled by the slaves behind them.

  The running footsteps crushed them, broke their ribs, trampled their chests, mixing their flesh and blood into the mud, becoming part of the battlefield.

  The smell of blood and gunpowder in the air grew thicker, as if the entire world were suffocating.

  "Boom—!"

  "Bang! Bang! Bang!"

  The defenders fired in unison, the explosive gunfire drowning everything, like thunder cracking in the sky!

  The sharp whine of bullets cutting through the air drew a chilling trajectory, piercing someone’s body with a dull, deep sound.

  In the distance, the roar of cannons rumbled, deep and violent, like the earth groaning in agony.

  Each explosion was accompanied by the deafening sound of the ground cracking, and thick smoke rose, carrying debris and scorched earth with it.

  The sound of gasping came in waves, rough and broken, like the labored pull of a ruptured bellows, or the final struggles of a drowning person.

  Moans came from all directions, low and hoarse, intermittent, like broken musical notes.

  Some groaned hoarsely, as if their throats were constricted by wire, expelling indistinct words with the last of their breath;

  Others’ throats moved, holding back the tearing pain from their wounds, as if their chest would split in two from the suffocating gasps.

  Commanding shouts mixed in, hoarse and irritable, shouting and screaming;

  Those people repeatedly shouted commands to advance, fire, charge, as if using every ounce of their strength to suppress their fear.

  The sound of footsteps was chaotic, the deep, uneven steps in the mud echoing across the battlefield, accompanied by the brittle cracking of bones.

  The clinking of metal parts of explosives, the rustle of sweat-drenched clothing, the creaking of tightly gripped weapons,

  The sound of blood dripping, the squelching of mud being trampled, the click of bullets sliding into chambers, uncontrolled sobs, low muttered curses, the sighs of fear and pain...

  The sound of wind, gunfire, cannons, gasps, moans, commands, footsteps, impacts, vomiting...

  All the sounds mixed and intertwined, forming a heavy cloud hanging above everyone’s head, suffocating them with every breath.

  —An endless deathly melody echoed across the scorched earth.

  Elo listened to this melody, as if trapped in an unending nightmare.

  The suffocating symphony slowly but relentlessly ground against his eardrums, his soul.

  The sword in his heart trembled to the extreme, like anger pushed to its limits, ready to explode at any moment.

  However, the large hand called "suffering" tightly gripped the sword, preventing it from being unsheathed.

  —Even when trembling to the extreme, it could not be unsheathed.

  Gradually, the footsteps began to dwindle.

  It wasn’t because everyone was running faster, but because—fewer and fewer people were able to run.

  At the same time, the city walls grew closer, and the massive shadow cast over the battlefield.

  In an instant, Elo’s gaze sharpened, and the soldiers behind him had already stopped.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  They no longer moved forward, but stood still at this distance, clearly—

  The battlefield ahead was even more dangerous, and they could advance no further.

  Elo understood—the time had come!

  Carrying explosives to blow up the city walls?

  —Fk you! Blow up your damn city wall?! Are you all out of your minds?! Have you all lost it?!

  —A bunch of idiots! A bunch of morons! A bunch of assholes! A bunch of lunatics! A bunch of bastards!

  —A bunch of **ing bitches! A bunch of fatherless, motherless pieces of trash!

  —Fk this war! Fk those nobles! Fk this world!

  —Fk! Fk! Fk! I’ve never seen such a messed-up thing in my life!

  —Is this what humans do?! Forcing the living to carry explosives to blow up the wall?!

  —This isn't a battle! This is a massacre! This is live execution!

  —Do you have any humanity left?! Or did you all eat sh until it rotted your brains?!

  —Damn it, crazy! Completely insane! All of you have lost it! You can’t survive unless you’ve gone mad, can you?!

  —A bunch of animals, a bunch of worthless animals!

  —You bastards! One day, the revolution will come for you!

  —Every last one of your filthy bloodline will pay, and there won't even be anyone left to gather your ashes!

  His chest felt like something was roaring inside, tearing him apart.

  It wasn’t just for this absurd mission, but for everything he had witnessed since arriving here.

  —F**k! This stupid world!

  So, what should he do now?

  If he doesn't carry the explosives to blow up the city wall, what else can he do?

  Elo didn't hesitate for a second. The only answer he gave was—

  Play dead, and then find a way to escape this damn battlefield!

  His gaze quickly locked onto his target—

  In the low-lying area, several bodies were haphazardly piled together, the blood forming a dark red pool, and the stench of decay was suffocating and pungent.

  He slowly moved towards the low ground, his steps unsteady, resembling a prey exhausted and dying.

  When the gunshots rang out again, he jolted sharply, as though a bullet had pierced through his chest.

  He immediately threw himself down, without hesitation, collapsing into the pile of corpses.

  At the moment of falling, he released all his strength, letting his body go completely limp, lifeless.

  His cheek pressed into the blood-soaked ground, and the warm, viscous liquid slowly seeped along his skin.

  His breathing was weak, almost at a standstill; his heartbeat slowed, as if he had truly died, leaving only a barely perceptible pulse.

  But in his ears, the world still roared—

  Gunshots thundered, the dull sound of bullets tearing through flesh,

  Footsteps creaked as they crushed over the corpses,

  The stifled breaths and painful moans of survivors,

  Like rusted knives, slowly scraping at his nerves.

  He remained motionless, not daring to make a sound, unable to let anyone realize he was still alive.

  —Enough. The trouble is already too much. Let it end here.

  The charging individuals continued forward, ruthlessly trampling over the fallen corpses.

  One foot stepped on his arm, the other on his shoulder blade.

  The weight suddenly pressed down, as if his flesh were being torn apart, and his bones let out a dangerous, sorrowful creak.

  He didn’t shudder, not even a single wrinkle appeared on his brow.

  Pain? Fear? To him, these were insignificant.

  Because—his willpower had already surpassed the limits of his physical form.

  Even in the midst of raging flames and slaughter all around, he remained as steady as a rock, unshaken by fear, untouched by pain.

  Even if he were trapped in hell, he could still lift his head to gaze at the sky, searching for his own path.

  This was—the [Heart of the Strong Lv1].

  Even at its lowest level, it was enough to allow him to stand at the peak of the world!

  However, the [Heart of the Strong] was neither invincible nor all-powerful.

  It allows Elo to fearlessly face blades piercing his body, to remain unafraid even in the depths of hell, unaffected by everything in the outside world.

  But it couldn’t block the pain and loneliness within his heart, nor the regret and despair.

  It couldn’t block the desires, the loss, the fear, the weariness buried deep inside, with no place to escape.

  It couldn’t block the long-suppressed anger, confusion, guilt, and sorrow that had nowhere to vent.

  All external harm was insufficient to destroy him; only he himself could tear himself apart.

  The [Heart of the Strong] supported his body, driving him to move forward, but it couldn’t redeem his soul.

  True suffering was never from external swords, but from the torn soul within.

  —Invisible, yet sharper than all blades;

  —Silent, yet heavier than the roar of a thousand cannons.

  More footsteps trampled over him, blood, mud, and shattered innards splattered across his body, yet he remained motionless.

  Blood, filth, and the stench of decay consumed him, and the world plunged into endless darkness at that moment.

  In the darkness, his time stretched infinitely, each second like the whisper of death in his ear.

  Gunfire, footsteps, screams, and the chaos of the battlefield surged like a tide.

  But they seemed to have grown distant and blurry, as if separated by a heavy barrier.

  Elo was somewhat fatigued, but it wasn’t just physical exhaustion; it was a deep, mental weariness.

  In this moment of daze, he remembered a comic he had once read, and also recalled the absurd fantasies of his youthful ignorance...

  —Gentlemen, I love war!

  —I love annihilation warfare! I love blitzkrieg! I love defensive battles! I love siege warfare!

  —On the plains! On the streets! In the trenches! On the grasslands! In the deserts! On the sea! In the air!

  —Gentlemen! I look forward to war, a war like hell!

  Looking back on his younger self now, Elo could only feel unbearable shame.

  But he also knew that he didn’t truly love war.

  At that time, he was just a child lost in fantasy.

  Even those grandiose words weren’t his; they were lifted directly from that comic, the name of which he had long since forgotten.

  The reason he shouted "Gentlemen, I love war" wasn’t because of any deep understanding; he simply thought it sounded cool.

  As he grew older, he gradually encountered many things—

  Africa, Iraq, Syria, Afghanistan, the Balkans, Ukraine...

  Homes destroyed, loved ones killed by artillery fire, soldiers forced onto the battlefield.

  He saw cities turned to ruins by war, saw refugees who would never return home.

  He saw children crying amidst the rubble, heard the desperate wails of mothers, saw the bodies of the fallen on the battlefield.

  He felt no glory, only inhuman tragedy and a future destroyed by war.

  And so, he never again spoke those arrogant, boastful words.

  At the same time, he also felt his own powerlessness, because he knew—

  —The causes of war are complex, and he himself is insignificant.

  Behind war, there is economic competition, the struggle for resources;

  There are ethnic conflicts, ideological opposition, historical grudges, and power struggles.

  The ambitions of dictators or a regime are merely the fuse that ignites the war.

  Overthrowing them might end the war, or it might just be the beginning of another war—just like post-World War I Germany.

  And Elo is insignificant, just an ordinary office worker.

  He knows well that he cannot change this imperfect world, nor can he stop those irretrievable tragedies.

  So, he often tells himself:

  —Do what you can, follow the law, live earnestly, cherish your family.

  —If war ever comes and you deem it unjust, stand firmly against it, do not become its accomplice.

  —Your opposition might not change anything, but at least you can be true to your conscience.

  —And as a human, being true to your conscience is already enough.

  Fortunately, Elo had lived in a peaceful world far from the flames of war.

  For him, war was only a scene on a television screen, a shocking yet distant report in the news.

  —He had never imagined that one day he would step into a real inferno,

  nor had he ever thought that there would come a day when he would have to lie among piles of corpses pretending to be dead.

  There was no doubt that Elo had the power to end this war.

  If he wanted, he could force both sides to a ceasefire, bringing immediate peace to this bloody battlefield.

  But—he didn’t want to do that.

  Not just because he was "tired," not just because it was "troublesome."

  But because he understood—having the ability doesn’t mean he must act.

  If “you can,” then “you must” is, to him, a logic of a bandit.

  Otherwise, there will always be someone in this world trying to impose countless responsibilities that don’t belong to you.

  If everyone is waiting for a savior to appear, then this world is truly beyond salvation.

  So, Elo was unwilling, very unwilling, to draw his sword for something like "kindness," "mercy," or "sympathy."

  He didn’t draw his sword to be a "good person," nor to be a "hero" praised by others.

  What truly made him draw his sword was something that could stir his heart, something that evoked pain, anger, sorrow, and love.

  —If he saw someone not retreating even if it meant being torn to pieces to protect someone important,

  —If he saw someone stepping forward to protect their loved ones, even knowing they would die,

  At that moment, he would draw his sword, not to save someone, but because—he understood that feeling.

  That heart-wrenching, unyielding determination was the reason he was willing to draw his sword.

  Because he knew that if it were him—

  If there were someone he cared about, someone he loved, standing there, he would also step forward without hesitation.

  So, he didn’t draw his sword for the "world," not for "justice."

  He only drew his sword for those who made him feel a deep resonance.

  Elo thought of those slaves, of their numb eyes and cowering figures.

  He never failed to understand them, nor did he ever look down on them.

  But—drawing his sword for people like that was truly difficult.

  At the end of the day, they’re just the kind of people who kneel to whoever wins.

  If Elo won, they would fall to their knees, full of gratitude.

  But if Elo lost, they would just as readily throw themselves into the arms of the victor without a second thought.

  They never cared about right or wrong, had no stance, no dignity.

  Of course, Elo understood why they had become this way—

  The slaves who truly had courage and conviction had long been killed by the soldiers, not a single one left.

  What remained were only those who survived by submission, numbly drifting through each day.

  He understood their fear, and he understood their weakness.

  But understanding them didn’t mean he was willing to draw his sword for them — and that, he simply could not do.

  Thinking this, he felt even more certain that his decision was right:

  —If they won’t even fight for themselves, why should I fight for them?

  —Just because I’m soft-hearted? Isn’t this just taking advantage of someone who won’t say no?

  —If that’s the case, then I’d rather become cold and ruthless!

  —When I want to draw my sword, I’ll draw it — but no one has the right to force me!

  Even as these thoughts crossed his mind, Elo let out a quiet sigh.

  —Forget it. Stop thinking. I’m tired... just sleep.

  —When I wake up, I’ll leave this place.

  With that thought, drowsiness quietly crept in, like an invisible net slowly wrapping around him.

  He didn’t resist — he simply closed his weary eyes, letting himself sink into a dreamless darkness.