Without even blinking, she flipped her wrist like a butterfly wing, and the curved blade suddenly shot out from the lower side, slicing off the opponent's gun barrel with a "clang," and then smoothly slashed to the side.

The soldier's head rolled to the ground, and the spurt of blood from his neck was as high as half a person, staining the brown leather of the saddle until it shone.

The crisp sound of a blade slicing through iron armor, the muffled groan of bones breaking, the gasping breaths before death.

The salty sea breeze rushed into my nostrils, making my throat feel tight, and even my breath tasted rusty.

But she seemed completely oblivious to the bloodshed, not even furrowing her brow.

What made my heart tremble even more was the surge of Japanese soldiers' families, holding wrinkled infants in swaddling clothes and disheveled women.

Even the old woman with graying temples, leaning on her cracked cane, stumbled forward and knelt in a circle around her warhorse.

The wailing, mixed with the broken Tianxuan language shouts of "Two countries coexist" and "Spare the women and children," pierced people's eardrums with a sharp pain.

A woman wearing an indigo short-sleeved shirt, holding a baby whose face was purple from the cold, crawled forward a couple of steps.

His withered hand reached for her horse's reins, and he stammered in broken Tianxuan language.

"General, spare my life! My child is only six months old; he doesn't understand anything! Please have mercy..."

Qin Qianlu looked down, and a bead of blood that had congealed on her eyelashes fell with a "plop" onto the back of the woman's hand.

Her eyes were calm, as calm as a frozen lake in the twelfth lunar month, without the slightest ripple, not even reflecting the pleading in the woman's eyes.

The next second, she slightly lowered her wrist, and the double-edged scimitar simultaneously drew two cold streaks of light.

The woman's cries and curses mixed with Japanese language came to an abrupt halt. A clean gash appeared on her neck, and blood splattered onto her silver armor, adding another layer of dark red.

The baby rolled out of the woman's arms, its limp body crashing against the bluestone steps with a dull thud, like a shattered pottery jar.

The little hands and feet twitched twice, then became completely still.

These family members, assuming we couldn't understand their language, pleaded for us in broken Japanese while simultaneously cursing us viciously in Japanese.

My hand gripping the spear was so tight that my knuckles turned white, and my fingertips almost dug into the rope binding the shaft. Even the base of my thumb was sore from the tension, leaving bluish-white marks.

He had already raised his foot to stop her, the sole of his boot scraping against the congealed bloodstains on the ground, making a soft "rustling" sound.

But the moment his gaze met hers, he felt as if he were nailed to the spot, even his breath caught in his throat.

That wasn't the ruthlessness of killing enemies on the battlefield, but a surging hatred that almost devoured her.

The hatred was so intense, it was like karmic fire tempered with the coldest ice of the underworld, burning so fiercely that her shoulders and back trembled slightly.

Even the knuckles gripping the knife hilt were bluish-white from the force, with veins bulging faintly, but his eyes were as cold as the snow that never melts in the far north, devoid of any warmth.

It was as if these vibrant people before me were nothing more than dust that should be crushed.

In a daze, I remembered the light screen I had seen before.

It was a small hand pressed under the broken walls, with half a bloodstained textbook still clutched between its fingers.

The two blurred characters "中华" on the cover were swollen from being soaked in blood, with scorch marks on the edges, as if they had been scorched by artillery fire.

A woman in a gray cloth shirt was kneeling on the scorched earth, holding a child who had already turned cold in her arms. The child's face was bluish-purple, and his lips were slightly parted.

The woman pressed her face against the child's face, calling out repeatedly, "Little sister, open your eyes and look at your mother. Your mother has cooked porridge for you, and it's still warm."

Her voice was hoarse like a broken gong, and her tears fell onto the child's cold face before disappearing instantly.

It was the only remaining tattered flag standing amidst the countless corpses covering the mountains, its red color like an inextinguishable wildfire, a large hole torn in the corner by shrapnel.

A few rusty bullets were still stuck in the flagpole, fluttering in the wind as if shouting something, or crying silently.

She was never a bloodthirsty person.

A few years ago, during a snow disaster in the northern border, she secretly exchanged all of her monthly salary, which she had saved up for three years, for coarse grains, mixed with the fine grains she took from her spatial storage.

He personally wrapped himself in a faded plain cotton robe and trudged through knee-deep snow to distribute food in the refugee slums.

A child, frozen purple, huddled in a corner, too afraid to accept the grain. She knelt down and stuffed the warm grain bag into the child's arms.

He even reached out and touched the child's stiff, frozen head, the warmth in his eyes capable of melting three feet of ice.

But at this moment, the pain hidden deep in the bones, the wounds etched on the soul, are flowing out along the tip of the knife.

In her eyes, these crying enemies' relatives were perhaps no different from the invaders who had trampled her homeland, burned her country, and made fun of children by impaling them on guns.