(Flashback) The Smoke of War a Thousand Years Ago
(I wrote this flashback chapter because readers requested it. If you think it's well-written, please leave a review. It doesn't count towards my daily word count; I normally update 8000+ words per day. You can skip this if you don't like it or don't want to read it; it doesn't affect the main plot. Please don't criticize me; I'm sensitive, and if you do, I'll cry and make a scene.)
(Approximately a thousand years ago, in a war-torn region of the real world)
The scorching sun, like a red-hot iron, relentlessly beat down on the parched earth. The air was thick with the mingled smoke, dust, and a strange, indescribable, sweet, pungent stench of decay and despair. A half-collapsed, abandoned factory lay sprawled on the desolate land, its rusted steel frames twisting and piercing the gloomy sky like the skeletal remains of a monstrous beast that had been gutted.
Inside the factory, light filtered through the broken ceiling, casting dappled beams that illuminated the rubble and the solidified, deep-colored grime. A dull, grating thud echoed in the air, along with a man's suppressed rage and a heavy-accented roar.
"I'll give you peace! Peace! Peace! Damn it! Are you deaf? You insist on me coming here myself to beat you up!"
A man dressed in combat uniform stained with hardened mud and dark stains was half-squatting on the ground. He looked to be in his late twenties, with his hair shaved very short and his brows and eyes etched with the fierceness honed by years of bloodshed. At this moment, his eyes burned with an almost tangible rage.
As he cursed, he repeatedly pounded his fists—wearing tactical gloves with half a finger and exposing the knuckles—onto the face and chest of the rebel leader pinned down by his knee, making slurring and thud sounds. Each punch felt like he was trying to crush the man's internal organs.
Beside him, a younger, more refined-looking subordinate, also in military uniform, was anxiously trying to dissuade them, his voice strained with tension. "Lowell... Lowell! You can't fight anymore! If you keep fighting, someone will really die! Although... this doesn't comply with the regulations... we'll be punished..."
Lowell, or rather, the man who wasn't called that at the time, paused upon hearing this, looked up, sweat mixed with dust sliding down his forehead. He spat out a mouthful of saliva. "Damn it, I really don't understand these people!"
"I'm furious! These people!" His voice was hoarse, like a broken gong, carrying a deep weariness and an unvented frustration. "Isn't it better to live a peaceful life? Isn't peace better? Huh? Why do they have to rub their faces against my shoes? When the cannons roar, gold pours in—even a three-year-old knows that! Peace is such a precious thing! Look at this idiot—"
He suddenly reached out, grabbed the rebel leader's greasy, tangled, blood-smeared hair, and slammed the man's swollen, blood- and tear-stained face down onto the muddy ground mixed with engine oil and dark red filth.
"This kind of scoundrel! Even though he's done so many wrong things, killed so many people, and even preyed on such young girls! The international community was still willing to give him a chance, to let him repent and lay down his arms! But he's so shameless! Who does he think he is? Does he think even the King of Heaven would offer him a cigarette? Does he really think I'm made of clay and have no temper?"
As he spoke, he delivered another heavy elbow strike to the man's spine, producing a teeth-grinding "crack." The leader jerked like a fish out of water, emitting a hoarse, bellowing sound.
"Damn it, talk to me!" The man lifted the other man's head up, almost nose to nose, and roared into his eyes, which were glazed over with extreme fear. "I remember the case file said you were quite the screamer when you were torturing young girls, weren't you? You liked making them scream, didn't you? What's wrong! Now! You're! Dumb!?"
With each word he roared out, he grabbed the other person's hair and slammed their face against the ground repeatedly, making a "thump! thump!" sound like smashing a watermelon, with mud and blood splattering everywhere.
The subordinate standing nearby watched, his eyelids twitching, and couldn't help but speak again, "Lowell! You... you've gagged him like a dumpling, how is he supposed to say anything?!"
The man paused, as if only now realizing what was happening. He glanced down at the leader's bulging mouth, drool dripping from the corners, where two unrecognizable, foul-smelling socks were indeed stuffed. He frowned in disgust, a fleeting look of realization crossing his face—"I forgot about that"—before he clicked his tongue impatiently. "Nonsense! I can't understand his gibberish anyway. What's the point of making him talk? He's just wasting my time!"
The subordinate was practically jumping up and down. "... I understand! I'm right here!"
"Oh, I forgot." He spoke so casually, as if he were remarking on the Tenten, as if his earlier outburst of rage had been nothing but an illusion.
He stretched out two fingers, as if pinching something dirty, and carefully pinched the edge of the wet, sticky sock. With a sudden tug, he pulled it out of the other person's mouth, along with a few strands of saliva mixed with blood.
The leader immediately let out a series of indistinct, whistling howls and pleas for mercy. Sure enough, he was missing several teeth, and his words were fragmented and incoherent.
The man raised his chin, looked at his subordinate, and frowned. "What's this idiot babbling about?"
The subordinate strained his ears, trying to decipher the message, and translated with a complicated expression. "He said... he said he was willing to surrender... willing to cooperate... begging us to spare his life..."
Upon hearing this, the man, far from calming down, exploded like a lit firecracker, kicking the woman in the face again and cursing, "Now you know how to back down? Where the hell were you before?! Did you have to wait until I beat the shit out of you before you realized the latrine stinks? You spineless coward! Besides, I've already brought this to your doorstep and stepped on your face, what good is surrendering now! Huh?! My orders now are 'cleaning up'! Not 'persuasion to surrender'! Do you understand human language now, you scum!"
(Scene changes. Time to follow)
The temporary command post was set up in a corner of a relatively intact factory building. Although rudimentary, it was equipped with a radio, maps, and other equipment, making it a rare place with a semblance of humanity amidst the ruins. The man had already washed his face briefly with water from his canteen and changed into a more presentable training uniform, but the fierceness between his brows hadn't completely dissipated. He sat on an ammunition box padded with a tattered cloth, his eyes somewhat vacant, lost in thought.
The subordinate who had just tried to dissuade him was now sitting opposite him, sipping water and looking a little scared.
"Peace, oh peace..." The man gazed out the window at the sky, dyed blood red by the setting sun and still reeking of gunpowder, and suddenly sighed without warning. His voice lowered, becoming slightly hoarse, as if he were talking to himself, "What a troublesome thing. Why are there always so many fools in this world who don't know how to cherish what they have? They only feel comfortable when they've ruined their good days, destroyed their families, and lost their lives?"
The subordinate put down the kettle, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and sighed, "Who knows what kind of mush is in these people's brains? They're like... like wild beasts that can't understand human speech. Sometimes I really don't understand why the higher-ups waste their breath on these heartless scumbags. Wouldn't it be cleaner and more efficient to just shoot them?"
The man's gaze drifted into the distance, as if he were looking far ahead. "Because these kinds of people, as long as they still have guns and followers, they can continue to wreak havoc. Dealing with them is easy for us. But bullets don't have eyes; every exchange of fire could see one of our soldiers fall. Don't act like some inexperienced hothead. The more you wear this uniform, the more you need to understand what peace comes at the cost of. Letting them go is unfair, it's letting them off easy. But hatred is a vicious thing; it bites not only others, but also your own people. Killing a chicken occasionally to scare the monkeys is fine, but if you're only focused on killing, you won't get peace."
His voice grew deeper, as if weighed down by lead. "Every fallen soldier is glorious, a hero. But what about their parents, wives, and children? They lost sons, husbands, and fathers. This pain cannot be compensated by any medals or compensation. I'm all alone now, so I can act with impunity... They weren't; they shouldn't have died. So, the higher-ups have their difficulties. If they can reduce bloodshed and death, even if it means negotiating with scum and gaining temporary peace, even if... even if they have to hold their noses and let a few bastards go, from a broader perspective, it's worth it. When I'm clear-headed, I understand. It's pragmatism—using the least amount of capital to obtain the greatest stability."
But then his face suddenly contorted with undisguised disgust. "... Damn it! I understand the logic, but of course, I can't get past this mental hurdle! It's disgusting!"
The subordinate was silent for a moment, his Adam's apple bobbing, before he said in a low voice, "Sigh... that's true. It's just that sometimes, thinking about it makes me feel so ashamed, letting some things that should have gone to hell get off easy."
The man lifted his eyelids to look at him, his gaze sharp as a knife. "Try not to think that way. We wear this uniform to protect more people, not to act as righteous heroes to satisfy our own sense of good and evil. I've seen enough family and comrades pass away; I don't want to one day have to salute your photo, go to your house, and deliver that incredibly heavy little box to your parents."
Upon hearing this, the subordinate stiffened slightly, looked up, and met the man's eyes, which held a lot of unspoken emotions. He opened his mouth, the words swirling around in his throat before finally turning into a dry, bitter laugh, "Lowell... how dare you talk to me like that? When you were beating that bastard just now, you really went all out. Aren't you worried about getting locked up when you get back? Even though the mission is 'cleaning up,' theoretically, capturing someone alive is like taking them prisoner! If they find out what you did, you're definitely going to get punished!"
The man's expression turned awkward, and he turned his face away somewhat uncomfortably. He raised his hand to rub his chin and coughed twice tactically. "Ahem... well... well, I just couldn't control myself. Look at the state he was in! He made us lose so many men for nothing. Seeing this kind of scum, my anger just surged to the top of my head, and I couldn't hold back."
His subordinate shook his head, seemingly at a loss for words. "Sigh... It was so much better back in school. Peaceful and quiet, the only worries were homework and exams. After school, we could get together to watch new anime, play games, and discuss which girls were pretty... Now, it's like this: a grown man in his mid-twenties, in this godforsaken place, forget about finding a girlfriend, you can hardly find a single woman alive. But..."
He paused, a complex, slightly dazed smile appearing on his face, "But at least what we're doing now is... well, you know... it's working towards... peace, right?"
The man twitched his lips, revealing an expression that wasn't quite a smile, his tone carrying a world-weariness and self-deprecation beyond his years. "'That'? Great, huh? Ha. But if you count on your fingers, those people in history who can truly be called great—like Yue Fei, who had 'loyalty to the country' etched into their bones; like Marquis Wu, who exhausted his heart and soul, even sacrificing his life to uphold that cause; or those predecessors and martyrs who carried the grand idea of liberating all mankind in their hearts, forging a path through wilderness where no one had ever walked before... Our little trifles are nothing but trifles, nothing more than following orders and pulling the trigger to kill. Their mindset, their burdens, just thinking about it gives me a headache. Speaking of which, those days in school, tsk... it's not even been a few years, but it feels like a lifetime ago, so far away..."
The subordinate, however, stubbornly disagreed. "You can't say that, Lowell. Everyone has their own destiny, everyone has their own purpose. You just always underestimate yourself, thinking that being a soldier and completing missions is enough. But what you just said shows that you understand perfectly well! You know better than many people why we carry guns!"
The man waved his hand, his face reverting to that "don't bother with this nonsense" expression. "Yes, yes, you're right about the big picture. I certainly respect every soldier who deserves this uniform, but I'm just someone who hates trouble and craves peace and quiet. I don't have the magnanimity of those great men. My biggest wish is that Tenten will truly be at peace, so I can happily take off this uniform, find a place with mountains and water to grow flowers and go fishing, and ideally have a partner to leisurely live with, lazing around and fishing... That's what a life should be like."
As he spoke, his gaze returned to the window. In the distance, on the horizon, a few flocks of pigeons seemed to fly by, tracing free paths across the clear blue sky where the smoke of war was gradually thinning. But beneath those paths, when would the deep and shallow scars on this land truly grow new flesh?
The whistle of peace seemed to still linger in a very, very far place. And at this moment, all he could do was, in his own clumsy way, again and again, try to knock on the door to even a brief moment of peace on this scorched earth soaked in blood and fire, even if his methods were ridiculously brutal, even if his heart was already twisted into a knot.