So Damn Pathetic

Zhong Shenxiu closed his eyes.

The night wind brushed across his face, carrying a chill.

He took a deep breath, then slowly let it out.

Then he opened his eyes and looked at his hand.

That hand was still held open beneath the moonlight.

Fair, young, without dragon scales, dragon claws, or bloodstains.

It was merely the hand of a nine-year-old child.

But he knew that these hands had once held a spear.

They had once pierced the chests of countless dragons.

They had once plunged into the heart of the Black Death Dragon during that final battle.

The real Dragon Fighting World had never been as wonderful as the cartoons made it out to be.

He was not saying that this world was terrifying. Only that the Dragon Fighting World was real, and reality was never beautiful.

Reality was blood.

Reality was death.

Reality was watching your companions fall before your eyes and being unable to do anything.

Reality was being torn apart, pierced through, and burned time and again, then waking up the next day to face the same enemy once more.

Reality was an enemy you could not kill even after killing it a hundred times finally dying beneath your spear on the hundred and first attempt.

Reality was that, in that instant, there was no joy or excitement—only a profound weariness. It was finally over.

The Dragon Fighting World was that kind of reality.

And this world...

Zhong Shenxiu lifted his head and looked once more at the bright moon.

This world was too beautiful.

So beautiful that it felt unreal to him.

The moonlight was pure, the night was gentle, the breeze carried the scent of flowers, and the sound of waves drifted over from afar.

There was no stench of blood, no roaring, no anguished cries from those on the brink of death.

There was only quiet.

Only peace.

Only... comfort.

Zhong Shenxiu suddenly smiled.

It was a faint smile, so faint it was nearly imperceptible.

The corners of his lips merely curved slightly upward, and a complicated emotion flickered through those Light Gold Vertical Pupils.

Comfort.

What a wonderful word.

Countless times in the Dragon Fighting World, he had thought about how wonderful it would be to live in comfort.

No fighting, no slaughter, no facing death every day.

Just living quietly.

Eating, sleeping, watching the moon.

Just like this.

Now, he had achieved it.

He had finally found comfort.

But he...

Was not used to it.

Zhong Shenxiu withdrew his gaze and lowered his head, looking at the balcony railing.

It was iron, cold to the touch, its metallic sheen glinting beneath the moonlight.

He reached out and gripped the railing.

The icy sensation traveled from his palm, real, clear, beyond doubt.

He tightened his grip.

Then tighter still.

His knuckles turned white.

He looked at his hand, at the railing clenched in his grasp, and suddenly remembered that he had held his spear the same way in the Dragon Fighting World.

Every tightening of his grip had meant the start of battle.

Every tightening had meant death was drawing near.

Every tightening had meant another round of slaughter.

Yet he would still grip it tightly.

Because it was the only thing he could do.

Zhong Shenxiu released the railing.

He looked at his palm, where a faint red mark had been left by the railing.

He stared at it for a long time.

Then he raised his head and looked at the moon again.

The moonlight remained bright.

The world remained quiet.

He still stood on the balcony, dressed in thin pajamas and barefoot, allowing the night wind to wash over his body.

Zhong Shenxiu suddenly gave a soft laugh.

It was so quiet that the night wind nearly swallowed it.

Yet in the silence of that moonlit night, it still reached his own ears clearly.

"So fucking pathetic."

He spoke in a low voice.

His voice was hoarse and deep, carrying an indescribable emotion.

It was impossible to tell whether he was talking about himself or this world.

After a long, long while.

A wisp of breeze passed beneath the moon, lifting the loose strands of hair before his forehead.

Zhong Shenxiu suddenly remembered a sentence.

He did not know where he had read it, nor when he had remembered it. Yet it surfaced from the depths of his memory, as clear as though it had been carved into his mind:

"My heart is like a tree. The more a tree longs for the light above, the deeper its roots must reach downward, into the soil, into the depths of darkness."

Zhong Shenxiu froze.

He raised his head and looked at the moon in the sky.

That was light.

Light from above.

The light he longed for.

But where were his roots?

Where were his roots?

In the Dragon Fighting World.

In those dark depths filled with blood, death, and despair.

There, he had endured nine years of slaughter.

There, he had experienced more than a hundred deaths.

There, he had learned how to hold a spear, how to pierce an enemy's chest, and how to find that sliver of life in a hopeless situation.

There, he had become who he was now.

The one with Light Gold Vertical Pupils.

The quiet, withdrawn one.

The one who did not fit in with children his own age.

Those were his roots.

They were the depths of his darkness.

They were his soil.

They were his...

Everything.

The next morning.

The sun had just risen over the horizon of the East Sea, dyeing the entire campus a pale gold. Morning dew still clung to the blades of grass, glittering in the sunlight. The field was deserted, with only a few early-rising birds hopping across the lawn in search of food.

Zhong Shenxiu stood below the teachers' dormitory building.

He wore a neat school uniform, his hair combed perfectly into place, and his sharply defined face bore no expression. Those Light Gold Vertical Pupils stared calmly at a certain window upstairs, unmoving like a statue.

He was waiting.

After roughly five minutes, the corridor door opened, and a figure in white walked out.

Wu Zhangkong.

As always, he wore spotless white clothes. His sky-blue hair hung casually over his shoulders, making his handsome face seem even colder. The instant he saw Zhong Shenxiu, his steps paused slightly—not from surprise, but simply to confirm what he was seeing.

Then he continued forward, stopping before Zhong Shenxiu.

"What is it?"

Wu Zhangkong asked.

His voice was as cold and flat as ever. Yet his eyes narrowed slightly as he studied the student before him.

This was only the second time Zhong Shenxiu had taken the initiative to find him.

The first time had been when Zhong Shenxiu asked him where at the academy he could rent a Soul Guidance workshop.

And now, this was the second time.

Zhong Shenxiu raised his head and looked at Wu Zhangkong.

Those Light Gold Vertical Pupils narrowed slightly in the morning light, carrying an almost predatory focus. Wu Zhangkong had seen that gaze before—on battlefields, amid life-and-death struggles, in the eyes of Soul Masters who had truly experienced death.

But it should not have appeared in the eyes of a nine-year-old child.

Zhong Shenxiu pressed his lips together.

His lips were somewhat dry—he had not slept all night, standing on the balcony until dawn. But he paid no attention to that. He merely looked at Wu Zhangkong and spoke in his usual indifferent tone:

"Teacher, I want to fight you."

The words fell.

The morning wind blew between them, carrying several fallen leaves along with it.

Wu Zhangkong looked at Zhong Shenxiu.

Zhong Shenxiu looked at Wu Zhangkong.

Their eyes met.

One cold as frost, the other calm as an abyss.

After a long while.

Wu Zhangkong's brows twitched slightly—about the greatest change in expression his face could manage.

"Why?"

He said only two words, without the slightest extra emotion.