Kill the Evil Army

The hemp rope was thick, and the binding method was quite deliberate; in short, even a Second-rate Martial Artist would struggle to break free without relying on inner strength, let alone you, a mere "Third-rate Martial Artist."

"Nice blade." A soldier pulled out your long saber, tossed it casually to the ground, and didn't spare it another glance. You only cared about stats, not appearance—this "Mysterious Iron Saber" was high quality, but far from flashy.

One by one, the houses were searched clean. Some civilians, sensing something was wrong, hid in cellars or wells, only to be dragged out by the soldiers and tied up in the village center.

Once everyone was accounted for, you and the villagers were bound together, squeezed into a crowd, watching as the soldiers gradually revealed their true, vicious faces. With your sharp eyes and ears, you caught the conversation between two soldiers a few dozen paces away.

"Every corner must be cleared out—leave not a single soul alive! Afterward, dump the Wu Army's weapons here."

Then you saw them discard some blades and uniforms, followed by someone lighting a torch and pouring oil, setting the houses ablaze one by one.

As the flames soared into the sky, the villagers visibly panicked, and the soldiers walked over with sinister grins.

"Sir..." someone begged, only to be met with roaring laughter: "What 'sir'? We're the cruel Martial Kingdom Soldiers, here disguised as Qing Kingdom Soldiers to slaughter your village!"

"I see—so you're actually the Wu Army. No wonder you're so detestable and heartless!" you said, your face a mask of "sudden realization."

Then, amid the taunts of a few soldiers, you snapped the hemp rope, surging vital energy enveloping your entire body as you blazed with light like a divine being descending: "In that case, I'll kill you without guilt!"

"External Qi Projection!" Several officers paled in shock. "A First-rate Expert!" They quickly retreated, one even shouting, "This is a misunderstanding!"

You paid no heed to any of that. A single punch struck the soldier in front of you, the crack of a shattered skull echoing from your fist. Another kick sent a second soldier flying backward with a snap of his broken spine, crashing several meters away, unable to move.

A few steps forward, you snatched up the "Mysterious Iron Saber" they had discarded. With a whistling slash, you cleaved a charging soldier—along with his standard-issue blade—diagonally in two.

Your attack was so sudden that the soldiers had no time to react before losing three men. The leading officer's face twisted in rage as vital energy flared around him—he was a First-rate Martial Artist too!

The officer's vital energy burst forth in a bright yellow hue—this was a common military martial art: Hundred Battles Unfailing. When trained to Major Accomplishment, the energy turned bright yellow; at Perfection, it deepened to dark yellow. Though not an Advanced Martial Art, it was like the Iron Body Technique—a top-tier choice among common techniques.

The officer was in his forties and considered himself a martial prodigy. You looked barely over twenty (thanks to Foundation Amplification's longevity effect slowing aging), and at that age, even a First-rate Martial Artist would likely be a recent breakthrough, perhaps not even having strengthened their internal organs yet. But he had already begun infusing vital energy into his bones!

He wielded a long spear, thrusting forward like a Fierce Dragon Crossing the River, sweeping horizontally like Sweep Through a Thousand Armies—his combat techniques were masterfully refined. As he struck, five or six Second-rate level officers also rushed in. Under a multi-pronged assault, could you still hold your ground?

But the moment his spear clashed with your blade, his expression shifted drastically. The spearhead was forced aside by dozens of degrees—your strength was far beyond his imagination!

"Not as good as that Bandit Chief guy," you thought with disdain. Under your explosive vital energy, you drove him into a death trap within a dozen exchanges. But just then, those five or six officers closed in. Unwilling to trade your own injury for the officer's life, you temporarily abandoned the chance to land a killing blow.

This officer could still withstand ten of your moves, but those Second-rate officers were a different story. You sidestepped a slash from behind, shifted sideways, and smashed an officer's ribs with a vicious elbow strike. Then, with another thrust, you deflected another officer's spear and drove the Mysterious Iron Saber straight through his chest!

In a single round of combat, you shattered one man's jaw, leaving him severely wounded, and killed another on the spot!

"Stop! This really is a misunderstanding!" Words you seemed to have heard before rang out again, but this time, the speaker was the officer who, half a minute ago, had charged at you in fury.

He hadn't known until they fought. Only now did he realize, with horror, that you were far beyond a typical First-rate Martial Artist—you were a Martial Hall Master, a Martial Master!

Even with all the Second-rate officers present, they were no match for you. This entire elite force of a hundred men might well fall to your blade!

"Misunderstanding?" you sneered coldly as you kept killing. "Why didn't you say that earlier? Now that you can't win, it's a 'misunderstanding'?"

The officer gasped heavily, not because your words left him speechless, but because your relentless ten moves had churned his blood and energy, damaging countless capillaries, membranes, and joints. One misstep and he'd be left with lingering internal injuries for years.

Seeing you cut down two more officers and five soldiers in the blink of an eye, the officer was both frantic and furious. He spat out a mouthful of blood and finally decided to tell you the truth.

"It really is a misunderstanding, young hero, please stop! We are all Qing Kingdom soldiers, not from Wu! Our orders to slaughter this village came from above!"

You sneered dismissively. Around you, officers and soldiers lay dead or maimed—over a dozen had fallen in moments. The rest stood ten paces away, trembling, weapons raised but afraid to strike.

"Orders from above? Are you trying to make me laugh? Who would order an attack on their own people for no reason? You despicable Wu scum think you can fool me?"

The officer pulled a document from inside his tunic and tossed it to you. "Young hero, it's true! We soldiers are just following orders. Look, it's written here—we were to disguise ourselves as Wu soldiers, kill, and frame them."

You caught the document and read it carefully. It was exactly as he said—no specific reason for the massacre, just a simple command: leave no survivors, frame Wu. At the end, as if for moral cover, it added: "This is done for the sake of Qing."

A fawning smile crept onto the officer's face. "This is an order from above, for the greater good of Qing. I hope the young hero will leave now, let bygones be bygones, and do us this favor."

You found it pretty ridiculous.

To be honest, in this world, you had no sense of national duty or patriotism.

Because this world's "Qing Kingdom" had never helped you. Unlike this world's parents, who treated you well and whom you regarded as your true mother and father.

You grew up in the Qing He Gang, enduring exploitation. You walked the martial path by selling your life to the Chu Family—it was a fair exchange.

Later, the preferential treatment you received in various cities and places wasn't because you were a Qing citizen, but because you were a lofty martial artist!

This nation had never done anything for you. If you were a disciple from a sect or a student of a martial hall, you might have some sense of national duty (though most didn't, since the three kingdoms shared the same origin and race).

—Those martial artists had their training resources supplied by Qing to sects and halls from the start; they fought for their sects and halls, and the sects and halls fought for Qing.

But those resources came from gangs like the Qing He Gang, squeezing the commoners beneath them—squeezing you!

And you—you had never taken resources for free, never been nurtured or invested in without repayment. The only tangible things you'd gotten were from those two Young Talents Grand Competitions. You'd remember the kindness of those two sects, but you wouldn't extend that goodwill to the nation behind them.

So—you casually tore the document into shreds. As the officer's smile froze stiff, you spat out five words that crushed his hopes: "Pretty good act, though."

You leaped up, descended from the sky, and struck down with your blade like a Divine Demon descended. A blazing white light shone like two suns in the sky, its blinding radiance making him unable to look directly.

He barely managed to parry your strike, but then you suddenly let go. The Mysterious Iron Saber, out of your control, was knocked flying to the ground. But you had already sidestepped, crashing into his chest with a Mountain-Crushing Shoulder. A fist wrapped in surging vital energy slammed into his torso, blasting his heart apart!

The officer crumpled to the ground. Just before his life faded completely, he heard your mocking words: "Even if it were real, why would I act for a nation that issues such orders, and do you scum any favors?"

(Nearly 7000 words today, so bring on the comments and votes? (ˉ﹃ˉ?))