Boom—

  The sound rolled from a distance, vibrating the eardrums with pain.

  The earth trembled, dust scattered, falling into the mouth, bitter and dry.

  Faint shouts came from all directions, hoarse roars, rapid breaths, and painful groans intertwined.

  The sound of metal clashing was dull and shrill, like armor being torn apart or blades scraping against rock.

  His body felt as if tightly bound by something, cold, damp, with an indescribable heaviness.

  Mud clung to his skin, wounds aching faintly, the remaining bloodstains already dried, like a layer of hard shell.

  The air was filled with the pungent smell of gunpowder, the stench of blood and scorched earth mixing together, nauseating.

  His nostrils were filled with the scent of ash and rust, every breath feeling like it was drawing in a decaying nightmare.

  Drip, drip—

  From very close, a faint sound slowly dripped.

  Blood fell into the muddy water, splashing small ripples.

  Warm blood, slowly sliding over his forehead. Was it his, or someone else's?

  Elo's consciousness drifted in chaos, like being trapped in deep water, unable to rise to the surface.

  His thoughts were slowly functioning, memories floating up like broken shards of a mirror.

  He wanted to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like they were filled with lead, not even a small gap could be pried open.

  His fingers moved slightly, as if confirming whether he could still control this weary body.

  His fingertips touched the cold ground, rough, damp, mixed with mud and blood.

  His stomach churned, he wanted to cough, but his breath was unstable.

  His lungs seemed to be filled with dust and gunpowder, each breath bringing a slight suffocation.

  Boom—

  Another deafening explosion shattered the chaos, and Elo's consciousness was violently pulled back.

  He barely managed to open his eyes, the blinding light forcing his pupils to instinctively contract.

  Thick smoke spread, engulfing the sky.

  The once radiant sun was obscured by the smoke, turning into a distant and indifferent deathly light, hanging dimly above the broken land.

  Flames surged, black smoke spiraled, consuming the entire battlefield, turning it into an endless inferno.

  The air was heavy, the searing scent of gunpowder filling his nostrils, mingled with the stench of scorched earth, blood, and decay, making him gag.

  Each breath felt like swallowing the ashes of death.

  The roar of explosions gradually faded, replaced by the nearby screams, the urgent gasps, and the crisp clatter of fallen weapons.

  Elo slowly raised his head, his blurry vision gradually focusing.

  He saw—

  A trench, or perhaps hell itself.

  Mud and blood slowly flowed beneath his feet.

  The earth glowed with a dark red hue, as if it were devouring the remnants of life.

  Broken bodies lay scattered around, dismembered limbs stuck to the trench walls, flesh and bone intertwined like some failed monster.

  A severed hand was wedged in the sandbag's seam, fingers still slightly curled, as if the deceased were desperately clinging to the last trace of hope.

  Not far away, a person’s half body had been blasted away, their entrails scattered in the muck.

  That person was not yet fully dead, their lips trembling slightly, a weak and hoarse wail coming from deep within their throat.

  Their eyes slowly moved, as if searching for salvation, or perhaps just unwillingly staring at the smoke-choked sky.

  More bodies lay in the trench—

  Soldiers killed by shockwaves, their eyes wide open, mouths agape, their faces frozen in extreme terror, as if silently screaming.

  The nearby dead’s abdomen was torn apart by shrapnel, their intestines dragged on the ground, soaked in blood and turned a dark red.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But the most terrifying were those still alive.

  The soldiers, groaning, rolling, and crying while clutching their missing limbs, struggled in the muddy water.

  Just as Elo’s brain was about to react instinctively—

  [Talent Skill: Heart of the Strong Lv1 — Activated!]

  The emotional fluctuations were instantly stripped away—fear, nausea, sorrow...

  In that moment, all the negative feelings that could lead to collapse were ruthlessly erased.

  He entered a state of calm, as if indifferent to this cruel world.

  His gaze slowly scanned the mutilated bodies, the blood flowing in the trench, and the burning corpses.

  Faced with this horrific scene that would instinctively make anyone want to flee, he only furrowed his brows, feeling an indescribable discomfort.

  It was not fear, not terror, but a trace of grief, so sorrowful that it weighed down on his heart.

  In addition, there was a sense of confusion—

  He didn’t understand why these people had fallen, nor could he grasp the meaning of this death.

  His mind worked quickly, memories began to flood in, and in just a few milliseconds, he remembered everything.

  Where was this?

  The answer was clear—on the battlefield.

  Why was it a battlefield?

  The answer was also clear—because of the system.

  Upon realizing the answers to these two questions, a wave of helplessness rose within him, and he let out a light sigh.

  This was not the journey he had hoped for, but it was the journey “they” had anticipated.

  He shifted his gaze, unwilling to look at the inferno before him any longer.

  As he shifted his gaze, the sounds around him began to change.

  The faint groans, the painful pleas for help, gradually grew distant and blurred, as if swallowed by the world.

  However, the gunfire in the distance remained clear, and the shrill whine of shells cutting through the air was still deafening.

  Elo's brows furrowed imperceptibly. It wasn't that the battlefield had become quieter, but that the system was filtering the sounds.

  Those "insignificant pieces of information" were weakened by the system, while those that could influence the situation and determine life or death were amplified.

  At this moment, he suddenly realized— the system's interference was deeper than he had imagined.

  The system not only controlled the shielding of emotions but was also adjusting Elo's perception.

  It was helping him focus more on survival and preventing him from being swallowed by the despair of the battlefield.

  Was this still assistance, or another form of control on a different level?

  Elo didn't delve into this question. What mattered more to him was another question—

  —Is this a bad thing?

  —Absolutely not.

  —Since that’s the case, why bother caring?

  Elo's gaze swept across to the other side of the trench, where he saw a group of miserable figures— slaves.

  They were gaunt and emaciated, their bodies covered in dirt and blood, lying in the mud like discarded rags.

  They had no protection, and some lacked even a decent piece of clothing, their bare shoulders trembling in the cold wind.

  Some wore indifferent expressions, their eyes vacant, as though long accustomed to the scent of death.

  Even with shells roaring overhead, their faces showed no signs of disturbance.

  And behind these apathetic slaves were others, huddled together—

  In their eyes still remained a glimmer of the will to survive, but deeper inside, fear had already consumed everything.

  Further still, were the figures that had completely given up resisting—

  They either stood or knelt, like walking corpses, their bodies fully shrouded in the shadow of death.

  Elo quickly noticed that there were not only adult males here but also minors and "elderly" individuals.

  The minors were not just teenage boys, but even children under the age of ten.

  Their small bodies trembled beneath ragged clothing, their faces covered in grime, and their eyes filled with intense fear.

  The "elderly" with shriveled skin and hunched postures appeared especially frail under Elo's gaze.

  However, Elo's instinct told him that these people were definitely not over 50.

  The extreme misery had caused them to age prematurely, as though life had been slowly drained from them.

  It was clear that they were not soldiers but slaves forcibly dragged into the battlefield, treated as expendables and driven toward death.

  Elo silently observed all of this, feeling the despair and hatred that pervaded the air.

  He was about to look away when he heard their voices.

  "Tian Dao (Heaven’s will ), why am I so unlucky..."

  The voice was faint, trembling with devotion.

  Elo frowned slightly.

  This was an unfamiliar language, but with the system’s translation, Elo could understand every word precisely.

  However, what made him frown was not the system's translation but the content of the translation.

  —Tian Dao(Heaven’s will)?

  (For more on “Tian Dao,” please refer to [Chapter-34.5])

  This was a typical term from Chinese culture.

  Especially the word "Dao," which clearly refers to the "Dao" in Daoist culture.

  Why would the system preserve these cultural features so accurately? Wouldn't "God" be more straightforward?

  Unless, the foreign language they were speaking originally meant "Tian Dao(Heaven’s will)."

  Elo’s gaze lingered on them for a moment, noticing their distinct East Asian features—

  Tired eyes, pale complexions, and expressions weighed down by exhaustion and fear.

  Almost all of them had long hair, black strands matted together by the muddy trenches.

  Their skin was pale and cracked, as if it had lost its color due to long-term hunger and cold, even showing a faint, sickly bluish-gray tint.

  The contours of their faces, extremely gaunt, became more angular, with high cheekbones seeming to pierce through the tight skin, and their jawlines were so thin that they had almost lost their curves.

  Extreme poverty and long periods of hunger had made their faces seem as if time had gnawed at them, leaving only shriveled skin clinging to their bones, like walking skeletons.

  There was no doubt—they were East Asian.

  And their long hair suggested a deep connection to traditional Chinese culture.

  (For more on the cultural significance of long hair, please refer to the detailed explanation in [Chapter-35.5].)

  —Tian Dao(Heaven’s will).

  In that instant, Elo understood the immense and extremely cruel world behind that term.

  This world should not exist in reality, but should only remain in fictional novels.

  Those types of novels are called—Xian Xia.

  (For more on "Xian Xia," please refer to [Chapter-34.5].)

  Thinking of this, Elo once again scanned the tragic slaves, gazing at this miserable world.

  If this world was truly the Xian Xia world Elo knew, then the level of misery before him was just the beginning.

  Why do I say that?

  Because in Elo’s understanding, the so-called Xian Xia world is like this:

  —Tian Dao(Heaven’s will) is not benevolent and treats Xian Ren (immortals) as ants;

  —Xian Ren (immortals) are not benevolent and treat all things as ants.

  In this world, slaughtering hundreds of thousands or even millions to enhance one’s strength is not unimaginable.

  In this world, death does not signify the end; it may be the beginning of suffering, as the soul will face endless torment.

  The classic villain characters from Hollywood movies would seem almost as cute as kittens in front of these immortals.

  Knowing this all too well, Elo couldn't help but hope that this world was not the Xian Xia world he was familiar with.