Chapter 32: Ten Years

Time is the most merciless blade, and also the most patient forge.

Since Luo Ling left the ruins where everything he once had was buried, carrying endless hatred and confusion, and began his training, ten years had passed.

Ten years—a span long enough for a child to become a youth, for oceans to turn into fields, and for a once-ignorant boy to temper a body of steel and a frozen heart in the baptism of blood and fire.

The first few years were the hardest of Luo Ling’s life.

During the day, he endured his longing for Eve and relentlessly trained in the Basic Dou Qi Method.

At night, hatred was his only blanket, and his endless source of strength.

Every wound was an accumulation of experience; every brush with death only made his thirst for power more desperate.

His training was simple and brutal, almost self-destructive, yet through sheer force of will far beyond ordinary men, he forcibly pushed the incomplete technique to minor mastery. His body, battered through countless trials, became exceptionally strong.

His Dou Qi was a deep gray-black, like the haze in his heart—silent, heavy, lacking the light and vitality of orthodox cultivators, yet imbued with a relentless force and destructive power.

To survive, and to obtain resources for cultivation, he took on countless high-difficulty hunting missions, always targeting the most vicious and cunning monsters.

His fighting style was just as direct and brutal—never dodging, trading wounds for wounds, life for life.

Scars covered his body like medals, each one a record of struggle on the edge of life and death.

At eighteen, when he felt his strength could finally shake something, he arrived at the Capital and joined the Imperial Army.

He did not choose the seemingly more prestigious Royal Knights, but instead enlisted in the “Blackspine Legion,” who were stationed year-round on the border and fought monsters head-on.

It was the Empire’s first line of defense—and also the deadliest place to be.

Yet for Luo Ling, it was exactly what he had longed for—here, there was an endless stream of monsters to kill.

On his first day, Luo Ling’s silence and almost fanatical approach to training drew attention within a small circle.

He never spoke with others; during rest, he either meditated or cleaned his rusted holy sword.

Others mocked him as antisocial, called him an idiot.

He ignored them.

In his world, there was only cultivation, killing enemies, and revenge.

The first time on the battlefield, faced with a tidal wave of low-ranked monsters—Goblins, Hobgoblins, and some grotesque Abominations—most recruits panicked, some even collapsing in terror.

But Luo Ling stood like a cold sculpture, his eyes void of fear, holding only a chill killing intent.

When the horn sounded, he was the first to charge out.

Gray-black Dou Qi wrapped his longsword, a death scythe cleaving lives with every swing.

His movements were precise and efficient, no wasted motion, every strike aimed at the vital points.

He seemed tireless, cutting through the hordes and tearing open a path in the tide of monsters.

Comrades looked on in shock at the silent young man, now like a war demon incarnate.

His bravery inspired some and frightened more.

That battle left the Blackspine Legion with heavy losses, but Luo Ling’s squad suffered relatively few casualties because of him.

After the battle, the tally showed that Luo Ling alone had slain a third of the squad’s total kills.

“A madman! He’s a madman!”

Someone muttered, still shaken.

“But… he can really fight!”

Someone else said with genuine awe.

Luo Ling’s name began to spread through the Blackspine Legion for the first time.

With each battle, his name became a legend.

He always charged at the front, always stayed behind when retreating.

He fought fiercely, fearless of death, as if born for war.

No matter how desperate the situation, as long as he was there, there seemed to be a glimmer of hope.

He earned merit after merit, rising rapidly from a common soldier to squad leader, then platoon leader, then company commander.

His rank grew ever higher, as did his honors.

The Empire’s leaders needed a hero to inspire the troops.

And Luo Ling became not only the hero they needed, but also a pawn they could use.

Thus, the title of “One Hundredth Hero” was bestowed upon him—a laurel and a shackle alike.

Bards began to sing of his “deeds,” painting him as a hero who turned the tide and saved the masses.

To this, Luo Ling only sneered.

Hero?

He never thought of himself as one.

Everything he did was for revenge.

The monsters he killed were merely stepping stones toward his true goal.

He hated the title, feeling like a puppet manipulated by others.

“Captain Luo Ling, congratulations! ‘One Hundredth Hero’—truly well-deserved!”

At a victory feast, a young soldier named Mark raised his cup to Luo Ling, excitement shining in his eyes.

Mark was someone Luo Ling had personally promoted—brave in battle, cheerful in personality, always trying to befriend the legendary captain.

Luo Ling glanced at him, eyes cold, and did not take the cup.

He spat out two words, “Get lost.”

Mark’s smile froze.

The noise around them abruptly died.

Everyone stared awkwardly.

Mark quietly set down his cup, lowered his head, eyes full of disappointment.

He could not understand why his kindness was always so coldly rejected.

Luo Ling turned and left, shutting out the stares and whispers behind him.

He needed no congratulations, no friends, and certainly no understanding.

Anyone who tried to approach his heart would be driven away by the sharpest blades of ice.

He was afraid—afraid that if he grew used to warmth, he would forget the bite of hatred; afraid that once he grew attached, he would hesitate on the road to vengeance.

He sealed himself away completely, becoming an isolated island.

Ten years of military life, Luo Ling fought countless battles.

He had seen prosperous towns reduced to ashes under the claws of monsters.

He had seen friends turn to lifeless corpses in an instant.

He had seen mothers weep over their dead children.

He had seen soldiers, numbed by endless war, entertain themselves by torturing prisoners.

The cruelty of war far surpassed the descriptions in books.

It was more than just blades and blood; it was the utter destruction of humanity.

With every sight, Luo Ling’s heart hardened—and grew more weary.

The thrill of vengeance in killing monsters faded, replaced by a deep numbness.

Each swing of the sword felt like repeating a program already set in motion.

The roars of monsters, the screams of comrades, the clash of weapons—all melded into an endless, mournful battlefield symphony echoing day and night.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, covered in blood and slumped against cold stone, Luo Ling felt an inexplicable emptiness.

He asked himself: Did this slaughter truly matter?

Even if he killed more monsters, could Eve’s death be avenged?

Even if he took revenge, could the dead return?

All he received was silence.

He began to have nightmares.

In his dreams, the burning village returned—Eve lying in a pool of blood, her empty gaze silently accusing him.

He tried to scream, but no sound came.

He would wake drenched in sweat, heart racing.

Only deeper training and more frenzied battles numbed the pain inside.

Along the way, he met others who tried to reach him.

Besides Mark, there was a female medic named Lina.

Lina was gentle, skilled, and had saved Luo Ling from death more than once.

She neither feared nor worshipped him, only cared for him quietly.

Sometimes she would gently remind him, “Captain Luo Ling, you need to rest too.”

Her gaze held concern, sympathy, but never a trace of contempt.

Toward her, Luo Ling was slightly more “tolerant” than others—at least, he did not drive her away outright.

But he kept his heart sealed.

When Lina bandaged his wounds, he remained rigid and motionless.

When Lina handed him food and water, he accepted with a low “Thank you,” then vanished.

He was like a wounded hedgehog, bristling with thorns to protect his most vulnerable parts.

Once, the Blackspine Legion encountered a rare high-level monster—a Scarlet Shadow Demon Panther with a trace of dragon blood.

It was swift as lightning, monstrously strong, and could spray corrosive acid.

The legion suffered heavy casualties; even veteran soldiers perished.

Luo Ling volunteered to hunt it alone.

It was a grueling pursuit—three days and nights across the mountains.

His Dou Qi was nearly exhausted, his body scored with wounds, one burned by acid that still ached.

In the end, with superhuman will and perfect timing, he drove his sword through the monster’s heart.

When he dragged the panther’s head back to camp, battered and bloody, everyone was stunned.

Cheers, admiration, and awe mingled.

The general awarded him personally, calling him the Guardian Deity of the Empire.

Luo Ling stood expressionless, a statue without a soul.

The cold metal of the medal sickened him.

He remembered the despair of fighting the demon panther.

He remembered the soldiers who had died to cover him.

This medal was soaked in blood.

As the sun set, Luo Ling’s figure faded into the horizon.

His eyes remained cold.

The fire of vengeance, after ten years, had only grown deeper and more restrained.

Ahead lay stronger enemies, harsher challenges, and the unreachable end of revenge.

How far could his hidden weariness and numbness carry him?

No one knew.

Ten years of drinking ice, his blood was nearly frozen.

But as long as hatred burned, he would walk on—even if only the abyss awaited.

Notice: The same series was there in the raws too.