Too Peaceful

Zhong Shenxiu jolted awake and sat up.

The dormitory was dark. Only moonlight filtered through a gap in the curtains, casting a slender silver streak across the floor. Wang Hao's and Zhao Tiezhu's snores rose and fell in turns, one shrill as a saw blade, the other low as muffled thunder, weaving together into some bizarre rhythm.

But Zhong Shenxiu paid them no mind.

He sat on his bed, breathing faintly hard.

Sweat covered his forehead.

Fine beads of sweat glimmered in the moonlight.

It had been a long time since this had happened.

Ever since he escaped the Dream Trial, became the Lord of the Dragon Fighting Plane, and chose to shoulder the responsibility of reviving the Fighting Dragon Clan, he had not had a nightmare in a long time.

No.

It was not a nightmare.

It was a memory.

He had dreamed of that final battle with the Black Death Dragon.

That time, he had won.

He had finally won.

After suffering more than a hundred deaths, he had finally won.

Yet everything in the dream had been exactly the same as in his memories—the Black Death Dragon was still as powerful, invincible, and unstoppable as it had been in their previous hundred encounters.

Even when it merely got serious, it had been enough to leave him scrambling for his life.

He even remembered the angle of every claw strike the Black Death Dragon made, the timing of every breath attack, and the trajectory of every movement.

Those scenes were etched into his mind, clearer than any other memory, so clear that they felt as though they had happened only moments ago.

Yet he still found it hard to believe.

How had he, the Dragon Fighting Warrior within the dream, defeated the Black Death Dragon back then?

He remembered the sensation of that spear piercing the Black Death Dragon's chest.

He remembered golden flames burning across black scales.

He remembered the wild exhilaration of tearing the Black Death Dragon apart after it fell!

But he did not remember how he had done it.

No, it was not that he did not remember.

He simply could not believe it.

Could something that powerful truly have been killed by him?

Zhong Shenxiu sat on the bed in silence for a long time.

Moonlight fell across his face, illuminating those pale golden vertical pupils.

At that moment, his eyes held none of their usual sharpness or detachment. There was only a profound calm—the kind of calm that could only come from witnessing too much death.

He let out a breath.

Then he threw back the covers and climbed out of bed.

His bare feet stepped onto the cold floor. Without putting on shoes, he walked to the balcony door and gently pushed it open.

The night wind rushed in.

It carried the chill of early autumn, the scent of grass and dew, and the faint, barely audible sound of tides drifting from the distant East Sea.

Zhong Shenxiu stepped onto the balcony.

The moonlight was brilliant.

It was not a figure of speech. It truly was brilliant.

A full moon hung at the center of the night sky. Cold and aloof moonlight spilled over heaven and earth, coating the entire campus in silver. The distant academic buildings, athletic field, and woods all showed hazy outlines beneath the moonlight, like the untouched spaces in an ink-wash painting.

It was beautiful.

Zhong Shenxiu thought.

Truly beautiful.

He raised his head and looked at the moon.

There was a moon in the Dragon Fighting World too.

But the moon there was blood-red.

Because that world was forever fighting, forever dying, with dragon blood forever staining the sky, the earth, and everything that could be stained red. That moon had witnessed too much slaughter, too many deaths, too much despair, so it too was blood-red.

But the moon here was silver-white.

Pure, cold and aloof, beautiful silver-white.

Zhong Shenxiu raised a hand, as though he wanted to touch the moon high above.

His hand reached toward the night sky, fingers spread wide as moonlight passed through the gaps and fell across his face.

Through that cold and aloof moonlight, his originally fair, childish hand now seemed doubled in Zhong Shenxiu's eyes.

A human hand...

A Dragon Fighting Warrior's hand...

They seemed to overlap and flicker endlessly.

He saw that hand covered in pale golden dragon scales, its fingertips extending into sharp dragon claws, with black blood still lingering between its fingers—the Black Death Dragon's blood.

Then he saw that hand again, fair and childish, its knuckles distinct, the hand a nine-year-old child should have.

The two hands overlapped, impossible to tell which was real and which was an illusion.

Zhong Shenxiu watched quietly.

Moonlight flowed through his hand, blending the two images together, then separating them, blending them again, then separating them again.

In the end, they overlapped.

The dragon scales vanished, the dragon claws withdrew, leaving only that fair, childish hand trembling faintly in the moonlight.

Zhong Shenxiu withdrew his hand and clenched it into a fist.

He lowered his head and looked at his fist.

It was clenched tightly.

So tightly that his knuckles turned white.

Slowly, he loosened it, spread his palm, and looked at the lines on it.

Those lines were clear, crisscrossing one another. He did not know what they meant, nor did he want to know. He only knew that these hands had gripped a spear countless times, pierced countless dragons, and finally pierced the Black Death Dragon's chest.

And now, those hands were merely spread open beneath the moonlight, holding nothing.

This was too peaceful.

The thought suddenly rose from the depths of his heart, as clear as though someone were whispering in his ear.

Zhong Shenxiu froze slightly.

Then he realized it was true.

This was too peaceful.

During those nine years in the Dragon Fighting World, he had never had a night like this.

Every night had been slaughter.

Every night had been death.

Every night had been endless fighting, fighting, fighting, until he died from exhaustion, only to awaken in the next day's dream and face the same opponents again, fight again, and die again.

That life had been hell.

But that life had also been his entire world.

All nine years of his life.

His entire childhood.

All of his memories.

And now, it was all over.

He no longer had to face death every night.

He no longer had to wake each morning bearing the wounds from the previous night.

He no longer had to prepare himself, every time he closed his eyes, for the possibility that he would never open them again.

It was over.

It was all over.

But...

Zhong Shenxiu raised his head and looked at the moon again.

But he was not used to it.

It was too quiet.

Too peaceful.

Too calm.

So calm that it felt unreal.

He remembered when he had first arrived in this world. Before falling asleep each night, he would instinctively clench his fists and prepare himself—prepare to wake within the dream, prepare to face those familiar opponents, prepare to meet another death.

But every time, he woke in darkness.

There was no Dragon Fighting World.

No battle.

No death.

Only a quiet dormitory, a quiet night, and quiet moonlight.

The first time, he thought he was still dreaming.

The second time, he began to doubt.

The third, fourth, fifth time... until an entire week had passed, he finally confirmed it—those days had truly ended.

That week, he suffered from insomnia.

Not because of fear, nor because of excitement, but simply because... he was not used to it.

It was too quiet.

So quiet that he could not hear his own heartbeat.

Later, he gradually got used to it.

He learned to fall asleep on quiet nights and wake on quiet mornings. He learned not to think about those battles, those deaths, or everything he had experienced in the Dragon Fighting World.

He learned to live like a normal child.

Going to school, cultivating, eating, sleeping.

Occasionally speaking a few words with his classmates, though most of the time, others spoke while he listened.

Occasionally joining group activities, though most of the time, he stood silently in a corner.

He thought he had already adapted.

But tonight, this dream had brought everything back.

Those images, those sounds, those sensations, those moments of struggling on the edge of death—they had all returned.

They were so clear that they felt as though they had happened only moments ago.