A brave man may not live, but he cannot die

Chapter 193 The Hero Reappears (Part 1)
Whenever the sky turned scarlet, the children knew that war had begun.

That is the light of witchcraft, using the blood of beasts, human remains, and the souls of the innocent to refine mountains of corpses and seas of blood into a crucible and then pour it into the sky. Even the great sunlight will be blinded by the evil magic of the human heart.

The child knew he couldn't look up. If that scarlet "skylight" shone into his eyes, he would become like that charging army, a human weapon devoid of reason, dominated by killing and insane desires. He would either kill the enemy and then be killed by the enemy, or fight until his brain was dissolved by witchcraft, ultimately becoming a pool of festering flesh and blood as scarlet as the sky.

This is a battle in which even if we win, there will be no survivors.

This is the Western Continent, a land that once housed a vast kingdom called "Yengen," perhaps the child's homeland. But now only ruins buried under yellow sand offer him some shelter. He found a well that had been abandoned for many years, and his small, malnourished body crawled inside. He covered his mouth and eyes with sand, leaving only his nostrils exposed to breathe. Even as sand poured in, the child endured it without moving.

He heard the earth tremble; it was the sound of warhorses' hooves, their frenzied roars fueled by witchcraft, the powerful pulse of war pulsating in his ears.

Compared to the tens of thousands of troops cobbled together from refugees, mercenaries, and tribesmen of the Western Continent, their opponents were ridiculously few—a mere knightly order that couldn't even muster five hundred men.

Silently, they shielded their warhorses behind them, forming a tight circle of protection. As crimson light painted the sky, they raised their swords and shields, a faint golden light emanating from the sacred tree patterns on their armor. These knights, clad in armor as imposing as mountains, were bathed in gold, and they silently raised their swords—

go ahead.

On the land where yellow sand swirled, the sprawling army stretched as far as the eye could see, like a surging torrent, crashing headlong into a stubborn rock.

Then, waves of flesh and death burst forth, only to fall into the yellow sand and be buried by new waves. Driven by the madness of witchcraft, the young people of these tribes, displaced refugees, mercenaries composed of deserters and death row inmates, children, the elderly, and women—even those without a decent set of clothes—hysterically brandished their "weapons"—hoes, sticks, stones, and bricks—charging fearlessly, only to be hacked to pieces along with their companions by a single sword stroke, their bodies raining down blood.

Amidst the overwhelming onslaught of the horde of people, there were always some who could harm the knights, but like drops of water hitting a rock, they couldn't even create a ripple. Before they could even touch the armor, their hands were severed by the golden light. At that moment, the madness catalyzed by the sorcery was also cleared away by the golden light. When the crimson faded and their eyes cleared, realizing what they were doing, before fear could even surge up, they were either killed by a single sword strike or trampled down by their swarming companions, waiting to die in despair.

If it were a stubborn rock, then with enough water flowing, fast enough, and eroding long enough, there would eventually be a moment when it would wear down. But this is not a stubborn rock at all; it is a meat grinder that only knows how to wield its sword and slaughter. When the knights on the outer ring are exhausted and the golden light dims slightly, then the companions in the rear will be replaced.

They don't need to communicate in words. Unlike the enemy army, which is completely untrained and relies solely on crazy impulses, this is a true battle-hardened army. Among them are even legendary figures who have been fighting on the battlefield since the beginning of the war in the Western Continent. From the very beginning, there is no scale for victory or defeat; it is only a matter of time.

Screams and agony filled the air as swords slashed through bone with a horrifying thud. Corpses were trampled by their bloodshot, crazed comrades, subjected to a one-sided slaughter. The force of five hundred knights somehow managed to push back the tide of madness, and a bloodbath, more frenzied than madness itself, stretched out beneath their feet.

Just as the crimson light in the sky was about to be exhausted and broken by the sunlight, the wizard hidden behind the Western Continent army once again cast a spell, re-enchanting the sky and continuing the madness.

At that moment, the knights also found the wizard's location.

The protected warhorses reared up and neighed, a roar that ordinary horses could never produce, almost like the howl of a tiger. Even the surrounding crowd, swept up in the frenzy, was shaken. A brief gap appeared on the battlefield. Then, they spurred their horses and galloped away, the golden wind tearing the battlefield apart, heading straight for the sorcerer who polluted the sky.

The tremors of the earth gradually subsided.

In a dry well somewhere in the yellow sand, two holes appeared with a "plop" from the blood-stained sand layer—human nostrils. A child struggled to push away the corpse that had fallen into the well, ignoring the stench of blood flowing onto him, and began to retch against the well wall. The child, born among the dead, was not frightened; he was simply trying to vomit out the sand that had crawled into his nasal cavity and trachea. The feeling was unpleasant, but the fine, sticky sand couldn't be vomited out in just a short time, and time was of the essence.

He stepped over the corpses' backs and nimbly climbed up to the well's edge, his movements anything but childlike, incredibly agile. He peered out, observing warily. The sky had turned a deep blue, and the warm sunlight bathed the corpses and yellow sand. In this vast world, he could see many people fleeing in panic.

It's now.

He climbed out of the dry well and then climbed up a low wall that was only half intact. Although the Western Continent was mountainous, Yan Gen's homeland was the most fertile and flat central plain. From the top, he could see the fleeing army in its entirety.

Soon, the child selected a target.

He drew a short sword from behind his back. Two years ago, the sword would have been too big for a child, but now it fit perfectly, holding it securely in his hand. Compared to the haphazard weapons of this hastily assembled army, the dagger was much more refined. The dents and scratches clearly indicated it was a scavenged weapon, but it had been repaired. No one knew how a child in such circumstances had managed to sharpen the short sword to such a point that even a drop of blood wouldn't leave a mark.

The child crouched low, using piles of corpses or city ruins as cover, and ran wildly toward the target with his arms swinging behind him.

After the wizard's death, the crimson sky collapsed and dissipated. The gradually waking army quickly crumbled after the knights charged back and forth. This was nothing more than a hastily assembled force, some of whom didn't even know who they were fighting for. In recent years, regimes that had risen and fallen on the Western Continent had been as numerous as carp crossing a river. Anyone with food could raise an army. Loyalty gained in this way was worthless in the face of survival. After the wizard's death, even the supervising team led the way in fleeing, fearing they would become victims of the Golden Knights' swords.

He was one of the deserters who stood out from his companions. He wore leather armor, carried a bow and sword, and was accompanied by two guards who also carried iron weapons.

He might be a minor leader in the army, or a Southern Continent person who came to the battlefield to gain merit, or he might be a supervising soldier, the son of a tribal chief, or a wealthy merchant or nobleman whose family had fallen on hard times.
The child had no interest in knowing who he was; such people exist in every battle, lurking on the fringes of the battlefield, issuing orders or surrendering and begging for mercy. He bypassed corpses; in the rout, no one would notice a dark-skinned child. Children like this, with underdeveloped brains, even if the witchcraft infection is lifted, will never wake up. Dying in a daze like this might be luckier than a lifetime of exile.
Just as he was thinking this, the child suddenly jumped up and, in front of the two guards, plunged a sharp dagger into his throat. He couldn't make a sound as warm blood gushed out, gurgling and gurgling.
Thump! The body fell into the sand. The child quickly groped for his leather armor and soon pulled out a small cloth bag, which felt hard to the touch. It wasn't silver coins; money was useless on the battlefield except as spoils of war. Inside, it might contain black bread, or dried rat meat, or if he was lucky enough, he might even find a bag of beef.

The two guards hesitated for a moment, and the child had already hidden the bag inside his tattered clothes. "Damn little black devil—" they gritted their teeth and surrounded him from the front and back, but the child's eyes showed no fear, only a coldness like that of a lion cornered by a pack of wolves.

"Ah—!!! Haa!!!"

The boy's hysterical screams echoed through the sky. He shouted desperately, and even amidst the wailing of the battlefield, his cries were particularly piercing. The fleeing people around him turned their heads, then shut their mouths and hurried away.

Everyone was running quietly, suppressing their cries even when they were in pain, afraid of attracting the attention of the knights. But this damned child was different; he was shouting recklessly. Two guards tried to cut off his head to retrieve the bag of rations that would last him for several days, but he was incredibly agile, and when he parried with his short sword, he even unleashed strength no less than that of an adult.

After a brief stalemate, the guards, hearing the sound of horses' hooves approaching from afar, dropped their weapons, turned, and fled, leaving behind a corpse with blood spurting from its neck and a child standing on top of it.

Without a word, the child turned and ran toward his next target.

He would need at least five small bags of food to survive until the next war.

Just as deserters wouldn't notice him, the knights wouldn't pay attention to a child. In a sense, the battlefield was safer for this child, who was accustomed to death, than the city.

"Shut up," he muttered to himself as he ran.

They cut off another head and used the same trick to steal the food, but this time they were unlucky. Most of the food in the bag had already been eaten, and it felt very dry.

"Didn't you say, 'No one can catch up with black people buying food for free'? There are a lot of people this time, maybe we can find enough food to get through the winter."

"Tch, it's my body, what right do you have to tell me what to do? I can say whatever I want, what's a 'flag'? Your language is horribly offensive."

"Ah, that's confidence."

"Then I'll say it a hundred times."

"No one can catch me. I can find enough food for the winter. I'm invincible! I—"

A sudden pain shot through the left side of the body, as if the child had hit the coldest, hardest wall. The child was thrown back and staggered to the ground.

The moment he rose to his feet, the imposing golden knight and his tall horse had already surrounded him, and even the sky was blocked by a large shield engraved with tree patterns.

Without the slightest hesitation, the child raised the short sword and held it to his chest. Even though there was no chance of winning, he glared back with fierce eyes like a little lion.

Surprisingly, the knights did not draw their swords, and a hoarse voice came from under one of the blood-stained helmets.

I saw you two months ago.

The child remained silent, his eyes darting between the horses, constantly searching for a chance to escape. "Hey kid, do you have a name?"

It's now--

His left leg slammed into the ground, and a strange power—one that could never belong to a normal child—entered the earth, spreading out in a circle. Mud and sand billowed up like a ninja's smoke array, and his small body shot out like an arrow. He changed his posture several times between the horse's legs, concealing his speed the whole time. He could run as fast as a horse!
However, in the land of the Golden Knights, those who run as fast as horses are not worthy of wearing this steel armor blessed by the sacred tree.

A sword swept across casually, swatting him back like a fly.

His left hand snapped with a "crack," and he fell heavily to the ground, but looked up in surprise—

They didn't seem to intend to kill him, using the broad back of the greatsword instead of the blade; otherwise, he would already be a corpse in two pieces.

The child's running attracted even more attention.

"...An extraordinary individual?"

"So small? Who gave him the potion?"

"Is it possible to survive the development of extraordinary traits at this age?"

Amidst the discussions, some young and some old, these knights beneath their armor, both men and women, looked at him with a newfound sense of approval.

The knight on his tall horse asked again:
"Do you have a name?"

This time, the knight did not call him "kid".

Even after being swept away by a sword, the child did not put down his weapon, but his severed arm eventually made him more obedient, and he reluctantly gritted his teeth and said, "No."

The knight did not ask where his extraordinary abilities came from.

Instead, he asked, "Are your parents still alive?"

"...Dead."

"Where will you die?"

"Before my eyes."

"Who killed him?"

"Soldier."

"Whose soldiers?"

"Does it matter?"

Then the knight laughed.

"You have a chance for revenge."

The child stared at him.

To whom?

"To war, to injustice, to death, to the Southerners who leech off this continent, to those who trample on all of this, your efforts deserve a reward beyond mere rations."

"Do you believe such nonsense?"

"I'm doing it." The knight planted his sword in the ground. The crimson emblem on the hilt, faded by time, was now stained red with fresh blood. It was a sharp pentagram, seemingly more dazzling than the sunlight.

"The Empire can give you a name."

His hoarse voice was more devout than the priest's praise: "If you are willing to offer your loyalty, we happen to have a few extra horses here."

The knights dispersed, revealing several horses carrying armored vehicles, the armor still dripping with blood and bits of flesh; they had died in the wizard's final madness.

The horses' eyes were filled with sorrow, yet they seemed to possess a human quality, scrutinizing the child in place of their deceased master, remaining silent and still.

"I"

The child's eyes visibly wavered for a moment.

Legend has it that beyond the transverse mountain range, which resembles the spine of a dragon, lies the most powerful nation among the humans of Temuran, a land blanketed in snow and cold winds.

Orphans there can grow up healthy, every child there can attend school, officials there can disregard the will of the cult, and the cold winds of the North cannot extinguish the burning embers of steel.
But it was as if a ghost was whispering behind the child. His dark face twisted and turned, and finally he said helplessly—

"I can survive on my own. I will kill the Demon King. I am not on the same path as you."

"Is it."

The knight raised his hand.

The child thought he was going to die and tightly closed his eyes, but unexpectedly, a thick leather bag was thrown at him. The smell of sausages from the North Continent wafted into the child's nose, making his eyes widen.

"Go find that little black devil." He heard the knight say, but not to him: "He can save you."

The only spoils he seized from the wizard were the living sacrifices that hadn't yet been turned into magical consumables. They were a group of children about his age who dismounted from their horses and walked toward him with a mixture of bewilderment and awe.

Where are we going?

It wasn't until someone asked him that he realized the golden age had already passed.

So the child repeated the question in a rather annoyed manner:
"Stop fucking singing Jojo, Jojo. Where are we going?"

(End of this chapter)