The artillery fire ceased, and the world fell into a deep silence.

  The smoke had not yet cleared, and the scorching heat from the scorched earth still twisted and churned in the air.

  The soil was soaked with blood, emanating a nauseating stench.

  Debris scattered everywhere, and in the craters left by the shelling, bodies, mangled beyond recognition, were twisted and piled.

  Severed limbs twitched slightly in the lingering heat, fingers curling as if trying to grasp the last remnants of life.

  In the distance, the faint, despairing groans of survivors could be heard, weak and hopeless, but no one responded. They were merely waiting for death's arrival.

  The slaves huddled together, their bodies pressed tightly against one another, as if this closeness could provide a trace of remaining warmth.

  They kept their heads down, not uttering a word, suppressing even the slightest breath.

  Some stared blankly, as though their souls had already departed.

  Others clutched their clothes tightly, their bodies tense like birds startled by a bowstring.

  Elo kept his head lowered, outwardly no different from the other slaves, seemingly terrified, not daring to look the soldiers in the eye.

  However, beneath this disguise, his spiritual power spread like invisible tendrils, quietly extending to capture every subtle movement around him, perceiving every action of the soldiers.

  The soldiers were orderly as they prepared their equipment, checking weapons, and loading ammunition.

  When loading the bullets, their joints moved without hesitation, their fingers steady as they inspected the blade, even their breathing perfectly controlled.

  Some even spoke softly, their tone as flat as if chatting about the weather.

  "It's these vermin's turn again."

  "Yeah, what's meant to be cleaned up still needs to be cleaned up."

  "Hope it doesn't take too long this time. The last batch was already annoying enough."

  "No choice. There's always some idiots trying to be clever, forcing us to waste a few more bullets."

  Their expressions were indifferent, their voices calm.

  As if the lives and deaths of the slaves were merely a routine matter, a tedious cleaning operation,

  like sweeping trash off the street, like crushing ants on the road, without any ripple.

  The gunfire suddenly rang out, and bullets flew past the slaves' ears, smashing heavily into the mud walls of the trench, sending dirt flying.

  A suppressed gasp echoed from the mud, followed by a low scream, quickly stifled by a hand pressed tightly to the mouth.

  The slaves flinched violently, curling up like startled birds, too afraid to move.

  "You vermin still pretending to be dead?"

  "Get up! Don't make me say it again."

  The officer's voice was deep, filled with disgust.

  The other soldiers slowly advanced, their boots crushing over corpses, their rifles casually aimed at the scattered slaves.

  "Get up! Don't make me say it again!"

  Though the slaves couldn't understand the soldiers' or officer's language, the angry roars and cold orders still clearly conveyed their intent—drive them out, suppress them, force them to submit!

  No one dared to defy.

  They stumbled up from the muck, dragging their mud-caked and wounded bodies, crawling forward like herded livestock.

  Elo's fingers unconsciously tightened, his thoughts momentarily frozen.

  Not because of fear, but because he couldn't understand.

  He couldn't understand—

  Why could humans show such cold, bone-deep cruelty to their own kind?

  It was as if, in their eyes, those struggling were no longer "people," but merely a pile of trash to be trampled at will.

  However, Elo's momentary hesitation was a fatal mistake.

  The sound of footsteps trudged through the mud, carrying a cold sense of oppression, silently approaching from behind.

  As the footsteps drew near, Elo had already detected the person behind him—even before turning around, he had already "seen" his face.

  The murderous intent was not intense, but it was filled with disgust and contempt, like a gaze directed at filthy waste.

  The rifle butt suddenly swung down, tearing through the air, and slammed heavily into Elo's skull!

  A dull thud rang out, and the violent impact instantly blurred his vision, The ringing in his ears roared like a tide.

  Blood trickled down from his forehead, sliding down his face and dripping into the muddy water.

  However, [Heart of the Strong Lv1] made his perception of pain feel as light as a breeze.

  He heard the dull thud of the impact, saw the blood droplets fall, yet it felt as though none of it belonged to him.

  He knew he was injured, but the sting could not shake his inner calm in the slightest.

  It was as if his consciousness was detached from his body, observing the torment as though it were someone else’s.

  He felt no anger, no fear, only a faint trace of surprise.

  —In all his past life experiences, no one had ever struck him like this.

  He had never even imagined that one day, he would be humiliated by such a blow.

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

  He felt no resentment, no anger, nor the slightest trace of killing intent toward that soldier.

  Because he knew clearly that the soldier was not the one at fault.

  The fault lay in his current identity as a "slave."

  If he revealed his true identity:

  —the Lord of the System, the Emperor of Ark Empire, the powerful Transcendent,

  Would that soldier dare treat him this way?

  —Of course not.

  The reason the soldier dared to do so was because, in his eyes, Elo was nothing but a slave.

  And this treatment of slaves was, to them, as normal as could be, completely justified and unquestionable.

  It was precisely because of this unthinking, unquestioned normalcy—

  That when Elo turned to look at the soldier, what arose in his heart was not anger, but a faint trace of pity.

  It was not the arrogance of a superior toward an inferior, but a sorrow stemming from humanity itself.

  —He had never realized that those slaves who were whipped and trampled were, just like him, "human."

  The sad thing was, this soldier didn’t even realize that he himself was merely another slave under a higher power.

  A person who is manipulated by orders, tamed by habit, brainwashed by others, has even lost the most basic sense of compassion.

  It was because of this that Elo’s pity was not for the soldier's actions, but for someone who had long forgotten “who they were,” someone who had lost sight of the meaning of being "human."

  "Didn't you fucking hear? Get your ass over there!"

  The voice was high-pitched and stern, but there was no anger in it.

  It was like driving a livestock to be slaughtered—cold, numb, and routine.

  The surrounding slaves heard the reprimand—

  Some flinched slightly, pulling their shoulders tighter;

  Some instinctively lowered their heads, afraid to look any longer, terrified of being singled out the next moment.

  And the soldiers, witnessing this scene—

  Only sneered, as if watching a familiar farce, before continuing to wipe down their rifles.

  In the entire trench, no one truly cared about Elo, as if his life or death had nothing to do with them.

  Elo lowered his gaze and raised his hand to press on the wound on his forehead, which was still oozing blood.

  The warm, sticky blood slid down through his fingers, as if reminding him of the humbleness of this body.

  He took a deep breath, slowly adjusted his breathing, and forced himself to take a step.

  His movements were slow and numb, without a trace of struggle, like a beast with its spine broken.

  The slaves in the trench were gradually herded to one spot—

  The oppressive, heavy atmosphere was like an invisible boulder, pressing down on everyone's chest, making it nearly impossible to breathe.

  Not long after, an officer strode toward the group.

  His leather boots stomped through the muddy ground, splashing blood and dust into the air.

  His voice was deep and harsh, devoid of any emotion, carrying even a trace of laziness and impatience:

  "All you fucking trash, pick up the explosives and move toward the city walls."

  No explanation, It was as if he were merely reading out a death sentence that had already been decided.

  A translator stood to the side, delivering the words to the slaves in the same cold, detached tone—each syllable cutting like a blade.

  For a brief moment, the air fell into silence. The slaves trembled involuntarily.

  They exchanged glances—eyes filled with despair, fear, and unwillingness.

  Some had already given up completely. They stood up numbly, picking up the explosives like walking corpses, their gazes vacant and lifeless.

  Some still tried to resist, their eyes darting around like cornered beasts, desperately searching for even the slightest chance of survival.

  However, those who struggled were firmly held back by the slaves beside them.

  "Don't move, please..."

  "You can't escape..."

  "They won’t let us go..."

  The officer, seeing their hesitation, frowned. His voice suddenly sharpened, barking out in irritation:

  "What the fuck are you waiting for?! Move! Or tomorrow’s rations are canceled for all of you!"

  At those words, the surrounding soldiers burst into laughter—mocking, jeering, full of amusement.

  Because they all knew—these slaves wouldn’t live to see tomorrow.

  One soldier kicked a nearby corpse that had long gone cold, sneering:

  "Not going? These dead fuckers would gladly take your place."

  Although Elo kept his gaze lowered, his Transcendent perception firmly captured every subtle movement of the soldiers.

  The attitude of these soldiers had already made one thing clear—

  Whether or not the mission objective was achieved didn't matter. What truly mattered was that these slaves must die.

  This wasn't war. It was a purge—no different from the Nazi massacre of the Jews in history.

  Elo's brow twitched slightly, and the suffocating pressure in his chest finally pushed him to the brink of speaking.

  At this moment, he wanted to step forward and tell everyone—Don’t listen to them!

  However, in that very instant, a hoarse, deep voice rang out ahead of him—

  "Don’t listen to them!"

  Elo froze for a moment, momentarily stunned—that was supposed to be his line.

  "They’re sending us to die! No one comes back alive!"

  The voice was rough, carrying the last traces of defiance, like a beast on the verge of collapse yet refusing to bow.

  Elo lifted his gaze and saw a burly slave.

  He stood among the crowd, his spine rigid, his eyes sharp and unyielding.

  Like a lone wolf on the battlefield, knowing death was inevitable, yet still gritting his teeth, refusing to fall.

  Everyone stopped moving, a deathly silence pressed down, suffocating.

  The next second, several soldiers moved like the wind, raising their rifles in unison, barrels locking onto the slave like venomous snakes.

  Fingers tensed against the triggers, ready to claim a life at any moment.

  At that instant, the officer raised his hand, stopping them.

  There was not a shred of mercy in his gaze, only a chilling malice—

  The kind of amusement a cat takes in toying with a mouse.

  The officer reached out unhurriedly and grabbed a nearby slave, dragging him forward as if lifting a worthless, tattered toy.

  —It was a child.

  A boy, no older than ten.

  Filthy from head to toe, trembling uncontrollably, his face was filled with sheer terror.

  The cold muzzle of the officer's gun pressed unfeelingly against the child's forehead.

  "Don't want to go?"

  The officer curled his lips into an unbearably cruel smile, yet his voice carried an air of suffocating menace:

  "Good. Very good. But because of you, I'll kill five people."

  The child trembled helplessly, tears welling up in his eyes, yet he couldn't utter a single word.

  He had done nothing. Yet, because of a stranger’s defiance, he had become the sacrifice for execution.

  The defiant man’s lips quivered as he looked around, searching for any sign of response, any support.

  But—Everyone lowered their heads.

  Some shrank their shoulders. Some quietly stepped back.

  Most averted their eyes, avoiding his gaze as if dodging a calamity.

  Some even looked at him with fear—

  As if the real monster wasn't the soldiers, but the one who dared to defy their orders.

  The soldiers sneered mockingly—the scene was all too familiar to them.

  The defiant man’s fists clenched tightly, his arm muscles bulging, his throat rasping as he let out an angry groan.

  But in the end, he lowered his head in despair, and everything fell into silence—only the suffocating, oppressive silence remained.

  Elo quietly watched the scene unfold, his gaze slowly falling on the resister.

  —He had been ready to speak, yet the other man spoke first.

  Everything happened with such precision, so precise that it didn't feel like a coincidence.

  Elo knew clearly in his heart—this was most likely not accidental.

  Perhaps—this was a "cutscene" deliberately arranged for him by the system.

  To make him understand what the price of resistance would be—

  Death would not claim only him.

  Those who were powerless to fight back would also die because of it.

  In other words, many would die because of him, even if the blame couldn’t be placed directly on Elo.

  Of course, Elo understood what the system was trying to say—

  The system wasn’t stopping him from acting—

  It was telling him:

  —If you see all this clearly, and still have the resolve to bear all the deaths and consequences that may follow, then go ahead and do it.

  (Author's Note: For more details about the system's true intentions, please refer to [Chapter-038.5].)

  So, here came the real question: Was Elo truly ready to bear that weight?

  He looked around and saw the vacant eyes and numb expressions of the people.

  If they were willing to fight back—if they were willing to risk their lives for survival—

  Elo wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t mind giving them a hand, standing at their side.

  But reality had given him the answer—

  Even the one who had tried to resist, had ultimately chosen to lower his head, to fall silent, to submit.

  And more than that—did a true "resister" even exist here?

  If it weren’t for the system’s deliberate setup,

  would anyone here really dare to stand up and say "no" to these soldiers?

  At that thought, Elo gave a faint shake of his head, finally abandoning the impulse to "step forward."

  The anger of "not being able to watch any longer," the impulse of "wanting to do something," vanished without a trace in that moment.

  —Why?

  Because Elo had not seen, in these people, even the faintest spark of strength worth drawing his sword for.

  No passion.

  No resolve.

  Not even a flicker of defiance or will to fight.

  They hadn’t even considered that they, too, were human.

  What Elo wanted was someone to fight beside him—he needed comrades,

  Not a crowd of empty shells passively waiting for death.

  He could find no resonance, no connection, not even a reason to entrust life and death among them.

  Therefore, Elo's impulse and sympathy—temporarily extinguished.