The setting sun was like blood.
The icy waters sobbed, carrying floating ice, broken logs, and countless swollen, pale corpses, slowly flowing eastward. The turbid river was dyed a dazzling golden-red by the setting sun, as if the earth were flowing with wounds that would never heal. The fighting on Dragon Head Plain had long since ceased, and a deathly silence enveloped this vast plateau that had just swallowed countless lives. The cold wind swept through the charred wooden fences, the collapsed rammed earth, and the broken weapons, emitting a hollow and mournful whistle, like the unwilling sighs of countless departed souls.
On the plateau, corpses lay strewn about. The Di and Rong, the defenders and their comrades, were entangled and piled upon each other in their final, frenzied battle, indistinguishable from one another. Congealed blood stained the frozen earth a deep purplish-black, seeping in to a depth of three inches, sticky and icy underfoot. Torn banners lay fallen atop the piles of corpses, ripped by the wind, emitting a mournful, tearing sound like giant shrouds. The air was thick with a nauseating mixture of stench—the stench of blood, the putrid odor of entrails, the pungent, charred nectar, the lingering black smoke of burning flesh, and the pervasive, chilling smell of death.
Alone, Xiao Yuxuan staggered through the vast graveyard like a wandering ghost. His armor was tattered and worn, covered in congealed blood and mud, making each step incredibly heavy. A dark red scab had formed on the wound on his forehead, and a few stray strands of hair clung to his cheeks, making his face appear even more withered. His once sharp, hawk-like eyes were now empty and blank, reflecting the mountains of corpses and seas of blood, yet seemingly unable to see anything into his heart. The edict of reinstatement, the bronze box in his arms, Gong Xi's entrustment, Jing Zhi's unwavering commitment… everything seemed so pale, so distant, devoid of any meaning or weight in the face of this boundless death.
At his feet lay the corpse of a young Di Rong soldier, face up, his grey-blue eyes staring blankly at the leaden sky, a frozen trace of childlike terror on his lips. Not far away, an old garrison soldier lay curled up, clutching a broken spear until his last breath; the spearhead was deeply embedded in the chest of a Di Rong warrior. The two men stood frozen like statues. Xiao Yuxuan stopped, looking at them, his lips moving silently. He slowly knelt down, extending a trembling, blood-stained hand, attempting to close the young Di Rong soldier's eyes. His fingertips touched the cold skin, but he couldn't soothe the frozen terror. He dejectedly withdrew his hand, the coldness of his fingertips seeming to travel through his veins, chilling him to the bone.
He staggered onward, his gaze unconsciously sweeping over each face that had once been vibrant, now stiff and ashen. Some of those faces had shared a drink with him, some had served under his command, some had cast trusting or suspicious glances his way… Now, they were all silent indictments on this scorched earth. He saw a familiar back—a squad leader from the Flying Bear Camp, who had fought alongside him yesterday at the East Third Breach, using his body to block the gap in the steel gate. Now, three arrows were stuck in his vest, and he lay prone on the ground, one hand still digging into the frozen earth. Xiao Yuxuan walked over, intending to turn him over, but his fingertips touched his already cold and stiff muscles; the sense of strength was gone, leaving only the fragility and emptiness of life.
Finally, he reached the edge of the breach in the west wing. There, the corpses piled up the highest, like a small hill. At the top of the hill, a burly figure leaned against a pile of burnt logs, like a sleeping behemoth.
Abundant fruit.
His only remaining right hand was still clenched tightly, a withered yet resilient locust seed peeking out from between his fingers, as if it were the last vestige of meaning he held onto in his life. His armor was tattered, and the horrific wound on his left arm was exposed, covered in blood and dirt, congealed into a dark red stain. The crisscrossing wounds on his face had stopped bleeding, covered by a layer of ashen death. He lowered his head slightly, his eyes closed, but a faint, relieved smile seemed to play at the corners of his mouth, as if to say, "General, I... did my best..."
Xiao Yuxuan's feet were rooted to the spot. The sounds of the world faded away instantly, leaving only the heavy, slow beating of his heart in his chest, each beat accompanied by a tearing pain. He moved slowly, step by step, to Sheng Guo's side, as if walking into a nightmare from which he could not wake. He slowly knelt down, the icy chill of the frozen earth piercing through his knees to his very bones, but it was nothing compared to the pain in his heart.
He reached out, his fingertips trembling violently, and gently brushed against Sheng Guo's cold, stiff cheek. Where he touched, there was a lifeless chill, a silence where life had utterly vanished. The brother who had followed him in his darkest hour, who had lost an arm for him, who had bled for him, who had shielded him with his own body, the man with the booming voice, the fiery temper, who had always called him "General"... was truly gone.
"Sheng Guo..." Xiao Yuxuan's voice was dry and hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing, so low it was almost inaudible. He tried to call out, but only managed to utter two broken syllables. It felt as if an invisible hand was tightly gripping his throat, all the grief, guilt, anger, and despair were stuck there, turning into silent sobs that burned his internal organs.
He lowered his head, his forehead pressed against Sheng Guo's cold shoulder armor, his body trembling uncontrollably. There was no wailing, only a suppressed, wounded animal-like sob squeezed from deep within his chest, accompanied by violent heaving of his shoulders. Hot tears finally broke free, mingling with the blood and dirt on his face, falling in large drops onto Sheng Guo's cold armor, leaving a small, dark, damp patch. This silent weeping was more heart-wrenching than any roar.
After an unknown amount of time, the wind seemed to grow colder. The setting sun sank below the horizon, leaving only a streak of blood-red clouds on the horizon, casting a somber and desolate light upon the entire Dragon Head Plain.
Gu Yan and Sun Qian silently appeared not far away. Gu Yan clutched the cold bronze box in his arms, while Sun Qian carried a small jar of murky, strong liquor and several broken swords and spears. They looked at Xiao Yuxuan, kneeling atop the mountain of corpses and sea of blood, weeping silently, and at Sheng Guo, who lay like a sleeping behemoth. Their eyes were filled with sorrow and exhaustion. The price of this battle had been far too high.
The two silently stepped forward and planted the broken sword and spear on the pile of corpses beside Sheng Guo, serving as a makeshift tombstone. Gu Yan gently placed the bronze box at Xiao Yuxuan's feet. Sun Qian broke the clay seal on the wine jar, and a strong, pungent smell of alcohol filled the air. He first took a large gulp himself, then silently handed the jar to Xiao Yuxuan.
Xiao Yuxuan slowly raised his head. His face was still streaked with tears and stained with blood, but something rekindled in his empty eyes—no longer blankness, but a cold and hard flame tempered by immense grief. He took the wine jar, but did not drink it. Instead, he stood up and staggered to the edge of the highest pile of corpses.
He gazed down upon this land utterly soaked in death. The setting sun, like blood, spilled across the endless corpses, turning broken halberds, charred wood, and tattered banners a shocking crimson. The icy waters sobbed, continuing to carry away more bodies. In the distance, the surviving soldiers, as small as ants, numbly carried the corpses of their comrades, piling them into massive pyres, preparing for an unprecedented cremation.
A desolate, bleak, and deathly silence. This is the end of war. Is this the mountain of corpses and sea of blood that must be traversed on the path to "stopping war"? Is this the price to pay for protecting the art of "living people"?
Xiao Yuxuan's gaze swept over the mountain of corpses at his feet, over the pile of firewood being built for cremation in the distance, over the cold and heavy bronze box in his arms, and finally, it landed on Sheng Guo's hand, which was tightly clutching the locust seed until the very end.
He suddenly raised the jar of strong liquor and, with all his might, smashed it down onto the mountain of corpses at his feet!
"Bang--!"
The earthenware jar shattered! The murky wine mixed with crimson blood flowed freely among the corpses, exuding a strong and tragic aura!
"General Bai Yu! Sheng Guo! Fellow comrades! Your heroic spirits are not far away!" Xiao Yuxuan's voice, like that of a wounded lone wolf, was hoarse yet carried a grief and power that pierced the clouds, echoing across the desolate plateau. "This wine is for you! For your blood! For your loyal souls! For this... damned war!"
He abruptly drew the only remaining, blood-stained sword from his waist! The blade, reflecting the crimson light of the setting sun, emitted a mournful hum!
"Today's blood has soaked this plain! Today's tragedy is etched into our hearts!" His voice trembled, yet every word was as firm as iron. "I, Xiao Yuxuan, hereby swear! As long as I have a breath left, the sword in my hand and the thought in my heart will forever be directed towards 'stopping war'! Even if the road ahead is filled with mountains of corpses and seas of blood, even if my body is shattered to pieces, this will never waver! This overwhelming blood debt, this boundless sorrow... one day, I will demand an explanation! I will demand... a bright and clear world!"
A roar echoed amidst the mountains of corpses and seas of blood, carrying boundless sorrow and an unyielding resolve. He raised his sword high, and with his last breath, plunged it fiercely into the pile of corpses at his feet!
"Zheng—!"
The broken sword hummed, its hilt trembling! Like a blood-stained oath planted in this land of suffering!
The setting sun sank completely. Boundless darkness, like a giant curtain, slowly enveloped Longshou Plain, the Cold Water, and this land that had just endured purgatory. Only the distant pyres of cremated corpses began to ignite one by one, leaping and roaring flames. The flames soared into the sky, illuminating the mountain of corpses with flickering light, twisting and deforming them like totems of hell. Thick smoke billowed, carrying the stench of charred flesh, rising and permeating the dark night sky, lingering for a long time.
Xiao Yuxuan stood atop the mountain of corpses, before the broken sword. His figure, elongated by the leaping flames, was projected onto the endless carnage behind him, lonely and resolute. In his arms, the cold bronze box lay silent, the ancient character "工" (gong) on its surface flickering in the firelight. And at his feet, Sheng Guo's hand, tightly clutching the locust seed, seemed to radiate a faint but stubborn vitality in the flames.
Far in the distance, atop a hill shrouded in darkness, a figure with a scarred face (Scarface of the Hanging Blade), like a vulture blending into the night, coldly watched the raging flames of burning corpses rising into the sky over Dragon Head Plain. His gaze finally settled on the solitary figure standing atop the plain, a cold and venomous smile curving his lips. In his hand, a dart with a bronze beast's head at its end twirled silently between his fingers, its cold light gleaming.
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