Elo shouldered the explosive pack and slowly blended into the line of slaves.

  It was as if he was bound by invisible chains, driven forward by the soldiers like livestock, heading toward the slaughterhouse he was fated to reach.

  The translator's voice repeated monotonously and coldly, over and over: Go to the base of the wall, drop the explosives, and then you can go home.

  —Go home?

  Elo lowered his head, his gaze falling on the metal plate on the side of the explosive pack. His fingertips lightly brushed the cold surface.

  The finely interwoven gear patterns etched into it were not just decoration, but some precise and cruel design.

  His brow furrowed slightly as a thought crossed his mind:

  —This isn’t ordinary explosives; it’s a remote signal detonator.

  As long as the soldiers press the button, the explosives will detonate.

  This isn’t a tactic, it’s a precise cleanup operation.

  Elo was surprised by the remote detonation technology, but at this moment, he had no time to delve deeper.

  The soldiers watched them coldly from behind, their fingers resting on the triggers, their eyes showing no trace of compassion.

  A whip cut through the air with a sharp crack and landed heavily on the back of the fallen slave.

  The skin split open, blood splattering, and the wound was gruesome, yet the slave only trembled, his steps faltering, too terrified to utter a single groan.

  Someone fell, and a soldier slammed the butt of his rifle into the fallen man’s back, forcing him to stand.

  Fear spread through the crowd, but the slaves, shaking, continued forward in their numbed march.

  Under the soldiers' relentless prodding, the slaves formed a line, slowly walking toward the battlefield.

  They lowered their heads, their gazes vacant, as though by not looking ahead, that hellish battlefield wouldn’t become their reality.

  The sky was overcast, the sunlight blocked, and distant cannon fire echoed intermittently like the mourning of the dead.

  The sandstorm carried scorched dust, lifting and pressing down on the broken flags on the ground, as if making a final, silent resistance in despair.

  The battlefield was littered with corpses, the remains of slaves and soldiers intertwined into a blood-soaked wasteland.

  Some bodies had already begun to decay, their skin swollen, flies buzzing around.

  The bodies were torn apart by artillery fire, limbs mutilated, entrails spilling out, with blood and mud merging into a crimson river.

  With each step, it felt as though they were treading on someone’s remains.

  Broken swords and charred battle flags told the tale of countless failed charges.

  In the distance, the cannons still roared, sporadic shelling continuing.

  The cries of the wounded were intermittent, struggling and gasping for breath amid the piles of corpses.

  It was as if the earth had swallowed the living, and only the dead remained, silently telling the truth of the war.

  One slave finally broke down, violently gagging as he collapsed to the ground, the acidic contents of his stomach mixing with his fear and vomiting.

  But he didn’t even dare to cry out, desperately covering his mouth with his hands.

  Some soldiers stood unmoved, having long since become accustomed to this sea of corpses and blood.

  Some soldiers looked grim, unable to hide their inner discomfort, their fingers trembling slightly on their weapons.

  Elo looked at everything before him, and even with the [Heart of the Strong], he couldn't help but feel waves of heartache and oppression.

  He remained silent, unsure of how to evaluate the situation or how to face it.

  Deep within, an indescribable weariness spread, like invisible chains wrapping around him.

  He couldn’t help but begin to doubt—whether his choice of "not drawing his sword" was truly the right one.

  That restless impulse stirred once more from the depths of his heart, as if a sword was slowly awakening with his emotions.

  —But for whom would the sword be drawn?

  He slowly surveyed his surroundings.

  The ragged, hollow-eyed slaves; the indifferent, complex-faced soldiers, all came into view.

  However, from these people, he saw no reason to draw his sword.

  No emotional resonance, no light worth dying for.

  He couldn’t help but ask himself in his mind:

  —Is my sword drawn only for my own heartache and sorrow?

  If that's the case, a deeper doubt arose in Elo’s heart:

  —On my journey ahead, I will witness more suffering, witness more blood and tears.

  —Every time, should I draw my sword to help? Over and over again, endlessly repeating?

  —Will there come a day when I grow numb?

  —Will there come a day when suffering and death no longer make my heart ache?

  Just as his thoughts grew heavier, a certain intuition from deep within answered him:

  —Your sword cannot be drawn solely for suffering.

  —Suffering can be a reason to draw the sword, but it can never be the full meaning of your sword.

  Elo slightly raised his head, exhaling softly, as if he was pushing down the impulse in his heart at that moment.

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  He shifted his gaze away from the blood and fire and looked toward the towering city wall in the distance.

  —It was a massive fortress, weathered by the ravages of war and the passing of time.

  Stern and solemn, it stood silently at the end of the battlefield, as if watching the joys and sorrows of the world without saying a word.

  The flag fluttering at the top stood out particularly, with the red background and black “Zhao (赵)” character flag rustling in the wind.

  Elo understood the symbolic meaning of that flag well. It was a typical feature of Chinese feudal military tradition—

  “Zhao (赵)” was either the name of the country or the surname of the highest commander of the city.

  No matter which it was, it represented one fact:

  The owner of this flag was still in control of the city, still possessing enough power to proclaim to the outside world that they had not been broken.

  Although the city had not been broken, the condition of the fortress was far from optimistic.

  The thick grey stone walls were covered in scorch marks and cracks, with parts of the wall collapsed due to shellfire, exposing the rubble-filled interior.

  The wall was uneven, with craters and cracks crisscrossing, like unhealed scars.

  The moat was filled with broken ladders, scattered weapons, and already decaying bodies. The blood and mud mixed together, giving off a strong, foul stench.

  Rows of enemy corpses hung from the wall, pierced through the shoulders by iron hooks and suspended from the outer wall.

  Blood flowed slowly down the stone bricks, staining the moat below.

  Flies buzzed in swarms around the decaying flesh, some bodies dried and blackened, others still dripping with blood from broken throats that had not yet fully congealed.

  Even more horrifying—

  The heads of the enemies were neatly impaled on the spear tips of the battlements, their faces twisted in agony from their final moments.

  Some mouths were torn, as though smiling, and the hollow eye sockets silently gazed at the battlefield below.

  This was not merely slaughter; it was a meticulously planned act of intimidation.

  Each hanging corpse, each severed head, was a silent threat.

  They warned the advancing enemies: This is your fate!

  Upon seeing this, Elo's first reaction was only one phrase: "This..."

  He had originally thought that the attacking side was the unjust force, but the scene before him made him realize that the defending side might not be any more honorable.

  At the very least, Elo couldn’t bring himself to agree with such horrific actions.

  And it was precisely because of this inability to agree that the sword in his heart became even harder to draw.

  On the battlements, several defenders moved slowly.

  Elo’s pupils suddenly contracted, his transcendent senses activating in an instant, magnifying the world’s details infinitely.

  The movements of the soldiers on the distant battlements became slow, and he could clearly see their chests rising and falling with each breath.

  Some soldiers had bloodshot eyes, their fingers stiffly gripping their rifles.

  Some remained silent, lowering their heads as they carefully cleaned the already damaged [ring-pommel saber].

  The blade was mottled, the edge dull and blunt, with several small nicks faintly visible along the cutting surface.

  The back of the blade was thick, with faint deep and shallow scratches visible on its surface.

  At the end of the handle, a naturally formed metal ring was still firmly embedded there.

  This was the most distinctive feature of the [ring-pommel saber], not merely a decoration, but an essential design for the soldier to carry and wield it.

  This [ring-pommel saber] was no longer the sharp weapon it once was, and it was doubtful it could endure many more battles.

  Yet, even so, the soldier was carefully wiping it, each movement done with great care, as if afraid of hurting it.

  The soldiers’ uniforms were vastly different from those of the white soldiers—

  Their dark blue waistcoats were stained by the smoke of war, the cuffs worn to the point where the original design was barely visible, with only the remnants of a simplified military insignia faintly discernible.

  Their trousers were tucked into muddy, dust-covered boots, and their belts held ammunition pouches, water bottles, and emergency bandage packs.

  Some soldiers wore battle helmets, their long hair tied tightly at the back beneath the metal;

  Yet strands still slipped free from the binding and drifted in the wind, adding a disheveled, weary air to their appearance.

  Further away, an officer wore a low-brimmed military hat, the brim deeply pressed down to shield the wearer's tired eyes.

  A young soldier muttered in a hoarse, fatigued voice:

  “How many batches is this now? There’s no end in sight...”

  The veteran next to him, who was wiping the halberd, coldly spat out:

  “Shut your damn mouth. Wait until the civilians are close before shooting. Don’t waste your bullets.”

  The wind swept across the battlefield, carrying with it a word, as if whispered in his ear:

  —Civilians?

  Elo was momentarily stunned.

  In this battlefield filled with slaughter and cold indifference, among these slaves being herded toward death, someone still used the word "Civilians"?

  Not "slaves", not "cannon fodder", but — "Civilians".

  Even though the one who spoke it sounded numb, that word still carried a warmth that had not been completely extinguished.

  In a reality so cold it was suffocating, at that moment, a faint but genuine trace of warmth seemed to emerge.

  Something gently stirred in Elo’s heart — a tiny spark of light.

  Small as it was, it was enough to make the sword at his side quiver slightly.

  Perhaps this was the reason he should draw his sword.

  —But should he really draw it?

  This humanity is precious precisely because suffering knows no bounds.

  Because the world is as dark as an endless sea, this faint glimmer of light becomes all the more valuable.

  Elo certainly understood the value of that humanity —

  —and if someone asked him whether that light was worth drawing a sword for,

  he would say — Yes.

  But still, he didn’t move.

  Because… that light wasn’t enough to ignite him completely.

  He knew how precious it was, but that irresistible urge to draw his sword hadn’t yet arrived.

  That overwhelming surge that would leave him no choice, that would set his heart on fire — hadn’t come.

  He even vaguely felt — that, at its core, he was still drawing the sword because of suffering.

  It was this thought that caused a stir in his heart, and his chaotic emotions surged like a flood.

  It was precisely because of this turmoil that Elo pressed down hard on his trembling sword sheath.

  —It’s not the right time yet.

  Elo forced himself to stop obsessing over these questions.

  He knew—

  —These thoughts will only drain my strength, leaving me exhausted and in deeper pain.

  Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't pull his mind away.

  The old soldier’s words echoed over and over in his head: “Wait until the civilians are close before shooting. Don’t waste your bullets.”

  —Shoot at civilians?

  Elo could understand why they would do it.

  For at this moment, they were no longer ordinary civilians, but had been forced into becoming tools for the enemy.

  Carrying bombs, they stepped toward the battlefield, no longer living beings, but living weapons driven by others.

  It was not the soldiers who killed the civilians with their own hands, but rather this war that consumed everything—

  Regardless of friend or foe, soldier or civilian, everyone had become its sacrifice.

  Some die in body, while others die in their humanity.

  The gunshot suddenly tore through the air, and the bullet accurately pierced a slave's chest, with a spray of blood blossoming behind him.

  His body jerked backward, limbs twitching, and he finally collapsed onto the dusty ground, the blood quickly seeping into the cracked earth.

  Elo's throat felt as if something had tightened around it, and his chest constricted, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

  He couldn’t bear to look—

  He dared not look—

  Because he knew that if he looked again, the anger and pain might drive him to draw his sword.

  The translator's voice followed, cold and emotionless: "Charge, or die here."

  Some slaves trembled, their feet instinctively taking a step backward.

  They feared the soldiers, but even more, they feared this battlefield that resembled hell.

  What made it worse was that some soldiers were mixed in with them, holding rifles, their cold eyes fixed on these "cannon fodder."

  Their task was not to fight, but to supervise, ensuring that the slaves would not collapse, run away, or drop their explosives along the way.

  Not far away, an officer watched the scene, giving a slight nod to his adjutant.

  Gunfire erupted again, this time more intense, as if following a deliberate rhythm.

  Bullets exploded in the dirt beside the slaves, kicking up dust.

  Some bullets tore through their clothes, while others grazed their scalps, drawing a thin line of blood.

  Their goal was not to massacre the slaves, but to force them to charge—like driving cattle.

  Finally, one slave broke down.

  His legs trembled, and a piercing scream erupted from his throat, like a death cry.

  He suddenly lunged forward, stumbling as he ran wildly toward the city wall, his steps disordered, as if he might fall at any moment.

  In that instant, the other slaves were also driven by instinct, like beasts cornered by hunting dogs, they desperately surged forward.

  Some screamed as they ran, some were pushed forward without understanding,

  and others lost their sense of direction, blindly following the crowd.

  The slaves were running in a frenzy, but behind them, the soldiers advanced in an orderly fashion.

  They were not charging to die with the slaves; rather, they were controlling the charge like a kite, ready to shoot anyone who dared to stop or retreat.

  Elo suppressed the irritation, anger, and pain in his heart, silently merging into the frantic rush toward death.