Even when I blocked the oncoming knife for her, the back of the blade struck the barrel of my gun, making my hand go numb and my arm tremble, but she didn't turn around.
He slashed even more fiercely at the Japanese soldiers, as if he wanted to cut into the bones of those Japanese soldiers the pain and hatred of two lifetimes.
Let them remember this blood debt forever.
I stood to her left rear, my hand gripping the spear so tightly that my knuckles turned white, the red tassel on the spearhead soaked with cold sweat and clung to the shaft like congealed blood.
I wanted to step forward and block all the knives for her, and I wanted to say, "Let me do it, you rest for a while, I'll cut for you."
I wanted to advise her, "Don't push yourself too hard, or your health will collapse," but my throat felt like it was blocked, and I couldn't make a sound.
He could only watch helplessly as she fought her way through the blood, as her armor became stained with blood, and as her eyes grew colder and colder.
Her hatred was too deep, too heavy, as if it weighed down the bones and tears of two lifetimes, as if it weighed down the burned-down cities, the slaughtered people, and the torn-up books.
I could neither find the root cause nor find any words of comfort.
When I said "Don't hate anymore," it was too light, like a feather brushing against a wound; when I said "I understand you," it was too fake, because I hadn't even experienced a tenth of her past life.
He could only silently take half a step forward, his spear tip pointing diagonally to deflect the cold arrow that came from the side.
The arrow flew past her temple with a whoosh, then "nailed" into the old locust tree behind her. The fletching was still trembling, and the red ribbon at the end of the arrow fluttered in the wind.
I watched her writhe amidst the blood-red light, her blood-stained clothes fluttering like butterfly wings, broken yet resilient, each movement carrying a sense of finality.
The curved sword in his hand shone brightly in the setting sun, and blood dripped down the blade, spreading out in small patches of red on the sand like short-lived flowers.
She is like a red plum tree repeatedly tempered by raging fire, taking root in blood and fire, her branches charred black and her bark cracked, yet she still blooms with the most beautiful flowers.
The petals are stained with blood and pain, yet they bloom resolutely and brilliantly, a beauty that makes one's heart tremble.
Even her breathing became labored, afraid that if she exhaled, she would disturb the resilience she had built up with hatred.
When the fighting ended that day, it was already completely dark. The soldiers in the camp were busy counting the casualties and treating the wounded.
The firewood in the hearth crackled and popped, sparks flying onto the ground, reflecting the scattered weapons and blood-stained cloths.
The air was thick with the smell of blood and gunpowder, choking people and making their throats hurt, and even bringing tears to their eyes.
Instead of joining the inventory, I searched around the battlefield for half the night, finally finding Qin Qianluo on the cliff outside the camp.
With her back to me, she held the double-edged scimitar stained with the blood of Japanese soldiers in her hand, carefully wiping it with a coarse cloth.
The blood on the blade had congealed, turning a purplish-black color, like a dried-up river. It took a lot of effort to wipe it clean, and the coarse cloth made a "rustling" sound as it rubbed against the blade.
It was exceptionally clear in the quiet night, as if it were telling some grievance.
Her movements were slow and gentle, as if she were caressing some fragile treasure. When her fingertips brushed against a small notch on the back of the knife, she would pause slightly, and her eyelids would droop even lower.
Long eyelashes cast a shadow under her eyes, and even her shoulders stiffened slightly, as if her soul had been captivated by that gap.
I stood a few steps behind her, not daring to approach, silently gripping the gun. The wood grain on the barrel pressed against my palm, carrying a familiar warmth.
The sea breeze carried the sound of waves from below the cliff, making her clothes flutter and my hair fly wildly, but no one moved.
She gazed at the dark sea, and I gazed at her back, both of us holding our breath, afraid to break the painful silence.
Her hatred never came from nowhere; it was a past I could never touch.
It's a wound that has never healed in two lifetimes; it hurts at the slightest touch and makes me tremble at the mere thought of it.
Just like when they won the first battle, the soldiers cheered and jumped around the campfire, holding up wine jars and shouting "Great victory!" The wine was spilled all over the ground, and the laughter shook the tents.
She stood on the beach, gazing at the dark sea. The sea breeze lifted the hem of her blood-stained clothes. There was no joy in getting revenge, only a deeper, unbearable pain in her eyes.
Like seawater, it washed over her eyes, even dimming the light in them.
It was only later, when I recalled this scene, that I realized it somewhat belatedly.
What separates me from her is never Su Jinyun, but the broken landscape and the scars of time that she keeps hidden in her heart for two lifetimes.
Those battles I never participated in, those heart-wrenching pains I will never understand.
Like an invisible wall, she kept me firmly outside her world, and even getting close felt like a disturbance.
That battle began at dawn when the pale light of the sea above the Japanese islands and continued until dusk when the setting sun dyed the entire sea a blood-red hue.
The bright silver armor that Qin Qianluo once wore, reflecting the moonlight, was no longer recognizable as its original color.
The breastplate on his shoulder and neck was covered in a thick layer of blood, which dripped down the gaps in his armor plates, and even the black tiger pattern embroidered on his trouser hem was soaked in blood.
At first, there were light pink splatters, which would turn slightly red when the wind blew. Later, the scabs were layered with fresh blood, which became dark and brownish, like a dried-up and cracked riverbed.
The jade hairpin that bound her hair was even more striking, with dark red bloodstains on the tip, rising and falling with the movement of her shoulders and back as she wielded her knife.
A faint, eerie glow of blood flickered from his temples, landing on the bluestone slab and spreading out a small, quickly drying dark mark.
The pair of double-edged scimitars in her hands, originally forged through countless hammer blows, with blades gleaming a cold, icy blue, were now covered in thick, sticky blood.
The blood dripped down the crescent-shaped tip of the knife, landing on the ebony stirrups with a "tap-tap" sound, and the splattered droplets fell onto the corpse beside the horse's hooves.
Japanese soldiers fell in droves like haystacks swept by a whirlwind: one Japanese soldier raised a long, iron-inlaid spear and thrust it toward her heart, the tip of the spear whistling through the air.
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