On the bluestone path in front of the ancestral hall, bloodstains meandered along the gullies, sizzling with the lingering sparks.
The screams were sometimes as sharp as torn silk, sometimes as hoarse as a broken bellows. The repeated "Spare me" in the pleas for mercy lost its meaning, leaving only futile trembling.
Cheng Muyun stood in the center of the chaos, the submachine gun in his hand still slightly hot. As the muzzle dropped, a hot shell casing fell at his feet, kicking up a fine cloud of dust.
The smile on his face never disappeared, but it was like a blade chilled to the bone—his eyes were slightly upturned, and the curve of his lips held no warmth, only a cruel pleasure.
The smile flickered in the firelight, as if a bloodthirsty demon had broken free of its seal and was leisurely admiring the purgatory it had created.
He never hesitated when he pulled the trigger; the sound of the bullet piercing flesh, mixed with the intense screams, became the only background noise at that moment.
When they see the flames on Li Qirui Mountain, they even tilt their heads slightly, as if admiring the arc of the flames rising.
No one could believe what they were seeing. His gun was pointed at the chests of these people, his eyes showing no hesitation, as if he were shooting at a group of insignificant prey.
"He's gone mad... he's really gone mad..." someone in the crowd murmured in despair.
Only Cheng Muyun himself knew that he wasn't crazy.
He's just seeking revenge for a blood debt.
When these people betrayed him, he could tolerate it and turn a blind eye.
But their biggest mistake was setting their sights on Xu Zhuohua.
That woman who lived so freely and flamboyantly was the only shackle he was willing to wear in this cold and indifferent world.
For her sake, he suppressed all his sharp edges, learned to be gentle, learned to yield, and was even willing to hold up an umbrella for these hypocritical people.
But they insisted on breaking the lock, wanting to dig out his weakness and trample it under their feet.
Chen Hede leaned against the pillar, his whole body trembling like a leaf.
He had seen Cheng Muyun's arrogance and his decisiveness after taking power, but he had never seen him like this before.
It was a kind of brutality that came after the complete shattering of pretense, a kind of madness that led to the destruction of everything.
He tried to call out to Cheng Muyun, but his throat felt like it was blocked by something.
A profound sense of fear gripped his heart for the first time. More suffocating than death itself was the sudden realization that no one in this world could stop Cheng Muyun anymore.
Cheng Muyun, who was willing to conceal his brilliance for Xu Zhuohua, is dead. Now, the one who lives is a demon born only for revenge.
The burden of blame that has been piling up on Cheng Muyun these past few days is like a damp cotton ball, heavy and suffocating.
Those baseless slanders, each word like a poisoned needle, pierced his most cherished reputation—he had lived an upright life and could not tolerate being talked about behind his back.
In the past, if anyone had dared to speak ill of him like that, he would have made them pay the price long ago.
But every time he clenched his fists and was about to lash out, he would think of Xu Zhuohua. Her voice was soft and had a calming power, so he would forcefully suppress his anger.
Even now, the recoil of the submachine gun is so strong that it makes my hands numb, and when I've emptied three magazines of bullets, the gun is so hot it almost burns through my palms.
The people lying haphazardly in my field of vision had died in various ways: some had been shot through the forehead, their eyes still wide open, as if they hadn't seen who pulled the trigger.
Some lay on the ground, their broken legs twisted at bizarre angles, blood pooling in small puddles on the ground as they crawled forward, howling in pain, leaving trails of blood, but they couldn't move even half a meter.
Even worse, some, with an unknown strength, dragged their still-warm companions' corpses over themselves, only daring to peek through the gaps between the bodies. Every gunshot made them convulse, clinging to life like rats in a sewer.
When the stray bullet hit Li Qirui, Cheng Muyun didn't even turn around.
A short, muffled groan was heard as a drop of scalding blood fell onto the blazing flames, causing the fire to leap up half a foot. The crackling flames licked at the air, and the surrounding temperature suddenly rose.
Cheng Muyun looked down at the gun in his hand. The metal casing was incredibly hot, yet he felt lighter than ever before.
It was like a long-blocked riverbed suddenly bursting open, and pent-up emotions poured out through the muzzle of a gun, making even breathing easier.
All the grievances, pent-up anger, and resentment from betrayal that I had endured in those days seemed to be released with the bullets.
But this smooth flow only lasted for the blink of an eye.
The next second, an overwhelming sadness crashed into my chest without warning, like a piece of red-hot iron blocking my throat.
Looking at the mess on the ground, and at those once-familiar faces now dead or injured, his heart suddenly ached.
Did he win? It seems so; those who hurt Xu Zhuohua have received their retribution.
Yet he had clearly lost completely—he had destroyed everything he had desperately tried to protect with his own hands, and he had also lost the version of himself that could still smile gently at Xu Zhuohua.
The wind swept across my face, carrying ash and a strong smell of blood.
Cheng Muyun slowly closed his eyes, his Adam's apple bobbing.
There are no winners in this massacre.
The dead lost their lives, the living carried eternal wounds, and he himself, ignited by hatred, ultimately became ashes in that fire.
After an unknown amount of time, the groans of the injured on the ground became weak, like candles flickering in the wind, ready to be extinguished at any moment.
The reporters took photos of the atrocities and then jumped into their cars without looking back, the sound of tires rolling over the gravel sounding like they were fleeing for their lives—no one wanted to stay in the ruins that still seemed to be bleeding, for fear of being dragged into the abyss by the aftermath of this catastrophe.
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