Courtyard Houses: Longevity Since the War of Resistance

Shanhaiguan Pass shrank behind me into a blurry black line. The wind outside the pass suddenly turned cold and hard, carrying the rough scent of distant forests and frozen earth. I didn't stop, and didn't even glance at the railway lines and sentry posts along the way that were tightly controlled by the Japanese army.

The digital troops' hideout is not in the bustling cities of Shenyang and Changchun, nor in the border military strongholds, but rather in the northern part of Heilongjiang Province.

"God of Space".

This time, it wasn't about containment, but about sealing off. Centered on myself, I mentally sketched out a bubble of independent space that completely enveloped the entire valley and its underground portion.

This spatial bubble is temporarily isolated from the outside world; sound, light, and any signals cannot escape, and the outside world cannot detect what is happening inside. An invisible, absolute barrier has descended, turning this sinful land into a prison isolated from the world.

The cage is complete; it's time to clear it out.

I instantly appeared in the deepest, most central area beneath the valley. It wasn't a laboratory or command center, but a scene like a painting of hell.

A huge, cold, and damp underground space.

The walls were rough cement, drenched in cold water droplets. The air was thick and foul, a mixture of the heavy smells of blood, excrement, and medicine. There were no beds, only rows of low, rusty iron cages, packed tightly together with people.

They were all from country Z. Men, women, and even a few children who were as thin as skeletons.

Most of them were naked or only dressed in tattered clothes, shivering in the bitter cold of the underground winter in Northeast China. Their skin was covered with frostbite, ulcers, and strange needle marks and stitches. Their eyes were empty and numb, with only a faint glimmer of life remaining deep within them, ready to be extinguished at any moment.

Some people have missing limbs, some parts are swollen and deformed, and some have horrifying marks on their bodies that are obviously unnaturally grown or spliced. They are kept here like livestock, some huddled up, some staring blankly into the void, unresponsive to the sudden appearance of someone, as if their souls had already died.

Adjoining the main room were several smaller spaces, which served as treatment rooms. Cold iron tables, dim operating lights, and piles of various chilling instruments were present: scalpels, saws, bone forceps, syringes, glass jars filled with unidentified liquids, and charts on the walls recording numbers, vital signs, injection reactions, and organ retrieval times.

Anger, a cold and violent anger, instantly breached all the dams of reason.

"A divine healer."

I forcibly suppressed the urge to destroy everything immediately and activated my skills at full power. A vast yet gentle aura, containing the power of the very essence of life, spread out from me, like a warm tide, washing over every iron cage and brushing against the body of every sufferer.

Wherever the light reached, frostbite healed, ulcers flattened, and fresh wounds granulated and covered the skin at a visible speed.

The bizarre swelling and mutated tissues caused by the forced injection of drugs are gently and firmly broken down, metabolized, and excreted from the body, restoring the original human structure.

The gruesome wounds left after organ removal are slowly but steadily filled by new, healthy tissue. Pathogens and toxins that invaded the body are thoroughly purified. Even organ failure caused by severe malnutrition is infused with vitality.

More importantly, it offers spiritual comfort and healing. The power of the divine healing hands touches their souls on the verge of collapse, gently soothing the psychological trauma left by extreme pain, stabilizing their fragile minds, and simultaneously applying a profound calming and amnesia effect. The specific memories of this hellish prison and the inhuman torture they suffered will be temporarily sealed and blurred, leaving only the warmth and sense of security of being "rescued." They need time, a long, normal amount of time, to truly recover.

One, two, ten, a hundred... Light flowed through the underground space, and the even breathing sounds, like those of a slumber, gradually replaced the painful groans and deathly silence.

The contorted expressions of pain on many faces gradually softened, and they drifted into a truly peaceful sleep. The physical wounds disappeared, and the flame of life was rekindled and protected.

After doing all this, I put the sleeping ones into my spatial pocket, dealt with the most urgent rescue, and turned around.

Facing the door that leads to the laboratory, office area, dormitory, and the area where the abusers were located.

The expression on his face had completely vanished, leaving only an extreme coldness, a thousand times colder than the chilling air deep underground in Northeast China.

I didn't use the God of Space to crush them, nor did I use Thor to pulverize them, nor did I use any skill that could instantly end everything.

He walked to the workbench in the treatment room, his gaze sweeping over the instruments stained with the blood of his compatriots. Finally, he picked up a scalpel, but not the sharpest one.

I scraped it hard and repeatedly on the rough edge of the cement table until the blade became somewhat dull and no longer cut so easily, but it could still cause enough pain.

Then I pushed open the door, and behind it was a brightly lit corridor with walls painted a stark white, and the air was thick with the smell of disinfectant. A R Army medic in a white coat and mask was walking by with a clipboard. When he saw me suddenly appear, he paused for a moment, then his expression turned to one of surprise, anger, and confusion. He opened his mouth as if to demand an explanation.

My figure had already appeared in front of him. I didn't use teleportation; I just took a step, but the speed was so fast that his retina couldn't keep up with it.

His left hand gripped his neck like an iron clamp, lifted him up, and slammed him hard against the wall beside him. The dull thud of bones breaking echoed.

Without hesitation, the dull scalpel in his right hand was plunged directly into his lower right abdomen—not a vital spot, but deep enough. Then, instead of thrusting and withdrawing, it was used to cut and pull horizontally, forcefully and slowly.

"Ugh—Ah!!!" The excruciating pain caused the medic's eyes to bulge out instantly, and an inhuman scream escaped his throat as his body convulsed violently because his neck was being strangled.

I watched his face contort in pain and fear, my eyes unwavering. My wrist twisted, the blunt blade grinding and dragging between his muscles and internal organs.

"This cut is for that child in cage number three." My voice was as calm as if I were stating the weather.

The blade was withdrawn, bringing with it a trail of foul blood and shredded tissue. Then, it fell again, changing position, and continued cutting.

"This cut is for the woman in cage number seven, the one whose kidney you removed and who still has a fever."

"This cut is for all those you've used as 'materials'."

Each cut avoided instantly fatal spots, but aimed for maximum pain and tissue destruction. The sounds of blunt blades tearing flesh, severing fascia, and scraping bone, mixed with the hoarse, distorted screams of the medic, echoed in the empty corridor.

The screams alerted the people in the other rooms. Footsteps, shouts, and the sound of gun bolts being pulled back could be heard.

Several Japanese guards carrying Type 14 pistols or submachine guns rushed out, and upon seeing the scene in the corridor, they raised their guns in terror.

I didn't even look at them. My left hand was still gripping the dying medic, and my right hand was still making another incision with the scalpel. I, who was practically immortal, didn't care about the bullets that were coming at me. But then, the passive effect of the God of Martial Arts was triggered, and the Golden Bell Iron Shirt was activated. The bullets bounced off as if they had hit an invisible wall, making it impossible for me to even sway.

Only after casually tossing the nearly dismembered but still breathing body against the wall did I look up at the guards who were terrified and frantically pulling the trigger in vain.

step.

A flash of light appeared.

It wasn't a vital organ; a guard's gun-wielding arm was severed at the elbow, the cut jagged and uneven, like the effect of a blunt blade.

One more step.

Another guard had a deep, bone-exposing cut to his thigh; an artery ruptured, and blood gushed out. He screamed and collapsed to the ground.

I didn't kill them immediately; I just rendered them incapacitated, leaving them to wait in extreme pain and the fear of blood loss.

Then, they walked toward the next figure in a white coat who was trying to hide in the room.

The entire underground facility has become a true hell on earth. However, this time, those suffering in hell are the former perpetrators.

I don't use skills, only the dulled scalpel in my hand, the body honed to the extreme by the mastery of close combat and the god of martial arts, with precise and meticulous control over my strength. I have memorized the number corresponding to every wound on the victims' bodies and the possible surgeons who performed the procedures.

find them.

They will repay the fear and pain they inflicted on their victims a hundredfold, a thousandfold, in the most direct, slowest, and most painful way.

Slit their throats, but leave them a sliver of breath, so they can hear the sound of their own blood gushing out.

Cut open their abdomens, turn them inside out, and let them see their internal organs.

The bone is removed, starting from the fingertips, segment by segment, slowly peeled away.

……

Screams, pleas for mercy, cries, and curses rose and fell, eventually fading into desperate sobs and the dull thuds of flesh being destroyed. Large swathes of thick, scarlet blood splattered across the pristine white walls and smooth floors, painting the most brutal abstract picture.

I felt like a sophisticated execution machine, devoid of angry roars or emotional fluctuations, only delivering precise and ruthless violence. Every movement was calculated to prolong the pain and avoid immediate death.

After an unknown amount of time, in the corridors, rooms, and offices... there was no longer a single intact perpetrator standing. Only mutilated, still slightly twitching bodies remained scattered on the floor, along with an overwhelming, pungent stench of blood.

I stood in the central hall, the scalpel in my hand long since dulled and chipped, covered in sticky bits of flesh and blood. I was also splattered with blood, but I didn't care.

His gaze swept over the chaotic ruins.

Is that enough?

No.

Far from enough.

They inflicted months and years of utter physical and mental torture and destruction on their fellow citizens. A mere death, even a painful one, would be far too lenient on them.

I took a deep breath, and the strong smell of blood rushed straight to my brain.

"The God of Time".

It's not large-scale manipulation, but a precise, targeted, localized reversal of time. Target: the remains of all the perpetrators on the ground.

The power of time subtly twists and rewinds here.

Those broken limbs, the flowing blood, the dissipated breath of life, like a film reel playing in reverse, began to move backward. Broken bones were mended, torn flesh healed, dried-up blood flowed back, and the stopped heart began to beat weakly again.

Within seconds, all the digital troops who had just died in extreme pain were "restored" to their state before they suffered the first blow—intact, conscious, and filled with fear!

They lay blankly on the ground, or sat up, staring in horror at their intact bodies stained with the blood of their memories, at the hellish scene around them, and at the figure standing like a demon in the middle of the pool of blood, holding a broken blade. A tremendous fear gripped them instantly; some lost control of their bladder, some broke down in tears, and some tried to crawl away.

I dropped the dull scalpel from my hand.

I walked to the wall, where a fire axe was hanging. I took it down and rubbed it on the concrete floor a few times to make the blade less sharp.

Then, amidst the unparalleled despair rekindled in the eyes of those Japanese medical officers, researchers, and guards, I dragged my fire axe toward the nearest one, the very same medical officer from the beginning.

"Just now, we used a knife," I said calmly, my voice clearly audible in the deathly silent hall. "Now, we'll switch to an axe."

The screams rang out again.

This time, it was even more somber and heavy, accompanied by the terrifying sound of bones being brutally chopped and smashed by a blunt axe.

Time, once again, became my cruelest accomplice.

Whenever they were on the verge of death, taking their last breath in unimaginable agony, the god of time would pull them back, restore them to their original state, and prepare them for the next round of execution, using different tools and methods, but with the same slow and painful pace.

Knife, spear, sword, halberd, club, fork, rake, whip, mace, hammer, axe, hook, sickle, rake, crutch, bow and arrow, rattan shield

If something didn't exist, a master craftsman would make it; everything that could cause pain was turned into a torture device.

In this completely sealed-off space, time loses its meaning. There is only endless torment and recurrence, like the most terrifying eternal nightmare.

Blood debts must be repaid in the most thorough and cruel way, personally.