The Zhang Family

The smoke of battle in Pinggao City had not yet dissipated, and the heavy stench of blood, mixed with dust, burnt grime, and an indescribable aura of death permeated every corner.

The small-scale street fighting after the city gates were breached has ended, and the Northern Liang army is now mopping up the remaining enemy forces, taking prisoners, and clearing the battlefield.

Zhou Heng followed a group of clerks responsible for counting the spoils and tallying the casualties as he entered the city that had just been baptized by blood and fire.

He was mentally prepared, but the scene before him still exceeded the limits of his imagination.

From the breach in the city wall to the main street, the scene was one of shocking devastation.

Broken ladders, twisted swords and spears, scattered arrows, and cold fragments of armor were mixed together and soaked in a pool of dark reddish-black blood that had not yet fully congealed.

Beneath the broken walls and ruins, charred corpses lay sprawled in various contorted positions, some even piled on top of each other, making it impossible to distinguish whether they were defenders or the attacking Northern Liang army.

A half-burnt flag dangled weakly from a smoldering beam.

The smell in the air was nauseating.

The intense stench of blood assaulted the nostrils, mingling with the pungent smell of ruptured entrails, the stench of burnt flesh, and the foul odor of incontinence, creating a thick, almost skin-sticky aura of death.

Zhou Heng's stomach churned violently. He clenched his teeth tightly, his face turned deathly pale, and fine beads of cold sweat appeared on his forehead.

He forced himself to look away, but there was nowhere to escape; everywhere was the trace of destruction and death.

Several Northern Liang soldiers were numbly carrying the relatively intact bodies of their comrades aside and simply covering them with straw mats. More corpses, especially those of enemy soldiers, were piled up haphazardly, like discarded timber.

In the distance, a group of prisoners, bound together with ropes, knelt among the rubble, their faces ashen, surrounded by guards holding sharp blades and with indifferent expressions.

This is war. It is not cold numbers in history books, nor chess pieces on a sand table, but the cruel reality of living flesh being crushed and lives being easily taken away.

Zhou Heng's hands trembled slightly uncontrollably, his nails digging deep into his palms, using the pain to resist the surging nausea and dizziness.

Just then, he saw Xiao Jue.

The Marquis of Zhenbei, who had just commanded this bloody siege, was standing on a relatively intact section of the city wall, his black armor splattered with dark bloodstains, and his dark cloak fluttering slightly in the wind that carried the smell of burning.

He stood there quietly, his gaze as calm as a frozen lake, surveying the carnage he had created with his own hands.

The sunlight fell on his cold, hard profile, devoid of any warmth, only an almost inhuman calm.

What is he looking at? Is he assessing the outcome of the battle? Calculating the gains and losses?

Zhou Heng suddenly felt a bone-chilling cold.

Precise, efficient, decisive, and...without any unnecessary pity.

Xiao Jue's military talent is beyond doubt. He is like a sophisticated and powerful war machine, always able to find the most efficient way to defeat the enemy.

But at this moment, Zhou Heng had a clearer and more ruthless understanding of him.

This realization transformed the churning in Zhou Heng's stomach into a deeper chill and fear.

The person he was assisting was this kind of person. He wanted to help this person seize the world and become a "wise ruler".

Could such a person truly be the "wise ruler" required by his mission?

Zhou Heng didn't know. He only felt that the road ahead was even more shrouded in mist, and that the ground beneath his feet was not solid ground, but rather slippery and unstable steps built of countless corpses.

The road home seemed to be soaked in an intense, unyielding crimson.

Xiao Jue seemed to sense something, and his gaze shifted from the tragic scene below, slowly turning to Zhou Heng, who was pale-faced and swaying at the end of the civil official line.

Their eyes met briefly through the billowing smoke and the aura of death.

Xiao Jue's eyes remained deep and calm, showing no ripples, as if the fierce battle he had just experienced and the hellish scene before him had not stirred even the slightest ripple in his heart.

The gaze lingered on Zhou Heng's pale face for a moment, as if to confirm his condition.

Zhou Heng instinctively tried to avoid that gaze, but found himself almost unable to move.

Xiao Jue said nothing, only furrowed his brows very slightly, almost imperceptibly, before looking away.

The night was as still as water, the charcoal fire had long since died out, and the chill seeped in through the cracks in the walls, but it was nothing compared to the icy coldness spreading through Zhou Heng's heart.

He lay on the hard wooden bed, his eyes open, staring at the darkness above him, its outline blurred by the faint snowlight from outside the window.

The daytime scenes played out in his mind like a revolving lantern, frame by frame, incredibly clear and slow.

It wasn't a simulation on a sand table, nor a brief report of "annihilating a certain number of enemies," but rather thick, blackened pools of blood, twisted and broken limbs, mountains of corpses, and the lingering, nauseating stench of a mixture of sweet, fishy, ​​and burnt smells in the air.

He could even recall the wide-open, empty eyes of a young soldier before he died, and another figure, still twitching slightly, trapped under a collapsed beam.

His stomach cramped again, and he turned to the side and gagged a few times, but only vomited some acidic fluid.

The nausea and fear he had forcibly suppressed on the battlefield during the day returned with even greater force in the silent night, gnawing at his nerves.

This is the reality of a chaotic world. Human life is cheap, and bloodshed is commonplace.

Great achievements are built upon bones, and authority is forged from countless broken lives.

The phrase "one general's success is built on the bones of ten thousand" that he had once seen in history books and movies now had the most direct and bloody interpretation.

A strong, overwhelming sense of disgust and fear surged through him.

He loathed this era that treated human life as a bargaining chip, and feared the ubiquitous violence and death.

He longed for everything about modern society—even the trivial troubles—because behind it all was a civilized world with basic order, respect for the right to life, and a world far removed from such blatant slaughter.

He wants to go home.

This thought had never been so clear and intense, almost becoming the only obsession that kept him alive in this hellish environment.

He wanted to leave this place, to get far away from these bloody, cruel, and precarious days!

The key to returning home was firmly held in one person's hand—Xiao Jue.

Only after Xiao Jue completes the "unification of the world" and becomes a "wise ruler" recognized by the system can he return.

This realization pierced his consciousness like an icicle, bringing a sharp, conscious pain.

He can no longer wait passively, no longer be satisfied with merely offering some scattered suggestions, and no longer indulge in the false sense of security of being "consulted".

Xiao Jue needs to ascend to that supreme position as quickly as possible so that he can complete his mission and leave this hellish place more quickly.

"Help him get into that seat as soon as possible..." Zhou Heng silently repeated the words between his teeth, clenching the thin mattress beneath him, his knuckles turning white from the force.