The blood dripped onto the sand and was instantly absorbed by the scalding sand, leaving only a dark mark, like a scar.

At that moment, her eyes widened suddenly, the ice in them shattered instantly, and the surging emotions were a hatred I had never seen before.

His eyes were so thick they looked like ink that couldn't be dissolved, almost overflowing from the corners of his eyes. Even his breathing trembled almost imperceptibly, and his chest rose and fell slightly, as if he was holding his breath and about to explode.

I vaguely know something about her past life.

One night, while on guard duty at the military camp, the sea breeze made the tent rattle, like someone was crying. I saw her staring blankly at the moon, her fingertips unconsciously twisting the hem of her clothes.

Her fingernails were digging into the fabric, and her voice was as soft as a dream: "The sea there was once soaked in blood, as red as if it had been dyed with rouge."

The people there even burned their school paper; the ash filled the air like a black snowfall…

I naturally felt hatred for these Japanese soldiers. I had seen images of Qin Qianluo's past life in the light screen above her head.

The Japanese soldiers looted the people's stored grain, poured the rice from the earthenware jars onto the ground, and trampled it barefoot, not caring that the rice grains got stuck between their toes, all while cursing loudly.

The fire burned down the thatched huts of the common people; flames licked the roof beams, crackling and popping, with black smoke carrying sparks.

The elderly and children who refused to leave were driven to jump into the sea, where tattered clothes and wooden toys floated.

They even impaled toddlers who had just learned to walk on the tips of spears for amusement; while the toddlers scratched and clawed, they laughed heartily, revealing their yellow and black teeth.

I was so angry that I clenched my fist so tightly that my knuckles turned white, and the red tassel on the spear trembled. I wanted nothing more than to rush in and chop those beasts to pieces.

But my feelings towards them were ultimately just the hatred of a general as Tianxuan, and resentment towards the suffering of people from other countries; there was no hatred.

Hatred is something that runs deep in the bones; it's a pain that carries the warmth of the body. I don't have that kind of past, so I can't generate that kind of heart-wrenching hatred.

Qin Qianluo is different.

She truly hated it, hated it to the core, so much so that her hand gripping the knife hilt trembled slightly, and sweat seeped through her fingers, dripping onto the sand and spreading into a small wet patch.

A Japanese pirate came out of the schoolteacher's house carrying a bundle of books. It was the only book collection in the village, with yellowed pages and curled edges.

The teacher glued it back together bit by bit, and the pages still bear the children's crooked scribbles.

With charcoal pencil, he wrote "Peace throughout the land," "May my mother be healthy," and "My teacher taught me to read." The childish strokes were full of the simplest hopes.

The Japanese pirate grinned maliciously as he threw the scroll into the fire pit. Flames leaped up and licked at the pages, quickly burning them black, with ashes drifting everywhere with the black smoke.

It falls on our heads and shoulders like a layer of ash that can't be washed off.

At that very moment, Qin Qianluo suddenly rushed forward like a white shadow, so fast that I didn't even have time to react, her curved blade swung quickly and fiercely.

With a flash of light, the Japanese soldier fell to the ground without uttering a sound, his blood splattering on her skirt like a basin of red ink.

I saw her squat down, kneeling on the scorching sand, trying to pick up the unburnt pages of the book. Her fingertips had barely touched the charred edges of the paper when she recoiled sharply from the heat.

Her fingertips were red and blistered, but she seemed oblivious, staring intently at the pages curling up in the fire, the redness in her eyes deepening.

Like burning charcoal, even the corners of her eyes were stained red, as if she had cried, but not a single tear had fallen.

Once on the Japanese island, she swung her scimitar faster and faster, the blade flashing in the sunlight like an impenetrable net.

Each rise and fall was accompanied by a sharp, piercing sound, as if roaring out the overwhelming hatred accumulated from past and present lives.

One of the Japanese soldiers was slashed in the leg by her. He knelt on the ground and kowtowed, begging for mercy. His forehead bled, staining the sand red.

He was babbling incomprehensible words while his hands were flailing about on the ground, trying to grab her clothes.

Without the slightest hesitation, she swung her knife down, and as she did so, I saw a hint of almost broken resolve in her eyes.

It was as if she hadn't cut down the enemy, but rather the flames of war that had suppressed her for two lifetimes, the burned scrolls, and the unspoken "I'm sorry" and "I miss you so much."

Her clothes were mostly stained red with blood, and her originally moon-white armor was now as red as snow soaked in blood, so heavy that she could not lift it.

A few strands of hair, stained with blood and sweat, clung to my cheeks, sticking to my skin and causing an unbearable itch, but I couldn't care less.

Sweat streamed down his forehead and cheeks, dripping onto the back of the knife and splashing up tiny droplets.

But she kept swinging her knife, like an enraged beast, her eyes filled with nothing but enemies and hatred, even her breath carrying the chill of glints in the sword.