I died young at the start, but I'm reincarnated with unlimited skill points!

Summer of the first year of Yongning.

The order to collect three times the blood tribute was like a thunderbolt striking every prefecture in the Great Li territory.

The original annual quota of ten million was suddenly increased to thirty million overnight.

In the past, each small village and town only needed to hand over three to five unlucky people each year, but now they have to hand over ten to fifteen.

In a small village of about a hundred households, the sudden loss of fifteen able-bodied men cut off a significant portion of the village's labor force.

No one cultivates the fields, no one cuts the firewood; at the end of the year, either the land is depleted or people starve to death.

The situation in towns isn't much better.

Quotas were allocated based on population size, and wealthy households and officials had their own ways to remove their family members from the list.

The fewer spots available will only end up on the shoulders of ordinary people with no connections or money.

The poor die in place of the rich.

This was nothing new in the Great Li Dynasty.

But with three times the usual amount of money being distributed, even middle-class families who could previously survive by bribing officials couldn't withstand it.

Along the official road, every day, long lines of ordinary people were escorted to various transfer stations.

The cries were deafening, never ceasing day or night.

Some states that couldn't meet their quotas started arresting people directly on the streets.

They didn't care about household registration or social status; as long as someone was alive, they would shove them into the prison van.

The world is in chaos, and life is like a prison.

Amidst the widespread wailing, the twelve transport envoys quietly took their positions.

Among them, seven were key agents of the resistance.

They did the dirtiest jobs, escorting the bloodiest prison carts, and whipping their compatriots to drive them along the official roads.

But in the dead of night, when no one is watching.

They would send out the blood tribute routes, troop deployments, and demon patrol patterns for the month through the single-line network woven by Su Yu, without missing a single word.

Once that intelligence is integrated into the rebel army's central command, it will become something else entirely.

List.

A list indicating which villages and towns have been infiltrated by the rebels and which have not yet been reached.

This list will be sent back to Zhao Heng's desk late at night through the most secretive channels.

The moment Zhao Heng received the list, he knew he had to do the cruelest thing in the world.

Choice.

He cannot reduce the total amount of blood tribute; the numbers must match, otherwise the Blood Crossing's review will immediately detect the flaw.

But he can decide who gets sent in.

The villages and towns that have already memorized the incantation for the mortal self-mutilation technique are the sparks that will ignite the future, and they must not be wasted in the Blood Refining Workshop.

These people must survive.

What should we do with the vacant spots?

They could only fill the gaps in those remote counties and states that had not yet been touched by the resistance and knew nothing about them.

in other words.

He's choosing who to die.

Those mortals who were replaced did not know the method of mortal self-mutilation, nor did they know about the resistance army.

They didn't even know that there were people in the world planning a way for them to survive.

They will be numbly loaded onto black iron prison carts, just like countless generations before them, and silently headed towards the Blood Refining Workshop.

Then he died quietly.

Zhao Heng knew that the lives of these people and those he had saved were not distinguished by any difference in status or value.

They are all citizens of Dali, all living, breathing people.

But he only has two hands.

If one part can preserve the flame, another part cannot.

He wasn't making a heroic choice; he was keeping a butcher's ledger.

But he can't be soft-hearted, otherwise all his previous efforts will be in vain!

……

The Hall of Mental Cultivation, late at night.

Zhao Heng sat behind the dragon desk, with two things spread out in front of him.

On the left are thick stacks of reports from various states regarding the collection of blood tribute.

On the right is the list that the rebels sent back.

He compared the two documents, holding a vermilion pen in his right hand and pressing down on the list with his left.

Each time he opened a booklet, he would first find the corresponding prefecture or county on the list.

If the county has been infiltrated by the rebels.

He then slightly altered the names of several villages and towns along the collection route, replacing the torchbearer with ordinary people from other places.

If the county has not yet been reached.

He didn't change anything and directly approved it.

The entire process was extremely precise, with every modification kept within the reach of anyone except the transport envoy.

The total number is exactly the same; only the name has changed.

Zhao Heng picked up his vermilion pen and opened the first folding book.

"In Dongyang Prefecture, 285,317 people were confiscated for blood donation this month."

"Due to strict screening and elimination of the sick and weak along the way, a total of 21,200 people were lost or eliminated. The actual number of people who entered the workshop was 264,117."

264,117.

These are not just cold, hard numbers; they represent real human lives!

Zhao Heng's hand holding the vermilion pen was trembling violently.

All he needs to do is approve the word "approved".

These 260,000 people will be dumped, truckload by truck, into the Blood Refining Workshop's never-ending meat grinder in the coming days.

"Clatter."

A drop of deep red vermilion ink dripped from the tip of the brush and landed on the blank space of the folding paper.

Zhao Heng's gaze quickly shifted to the top-secret list sent from the rebels' dark web on the right side of the table.

Dongyang Prefecture has not yet been largely covered by the flames of the resistance.

This means that he cannot replace too many valuable "nodes" from these 260,000 people.

These 260,000 people can only be used as expendable resources to fill the appetites of evil spirits, and die.

"call……"

Zhao Heng closed his eyes and exhaled a heavy breath.

When he opened his eyes again, the last trace of human warmth and weakness in those clear eyes of a sixteen-year-old boy was completely strangled and sealed off.

Instead, there is an unfathomable coldness and resolute determination.

The pen strokes fell.

The force penetrates the paper.

"allow."

A single scarlet word pronounced the death sentence on 260,000 people.

Zhao Heng didn't pause; like a numb butcher, he opened the second volume.

"In Nanling Prefecture, 327,000 people were conscripted for blood donation this month."

"Due to the strict screening and elimination of 45,000 people along the way who were depleted of qi and blood or suffered from 'hidden diseases,' the actual number of people who entered the workshop was 282,000."

Zhao Heng's gaze sharpened.

Nanling Prefecture was a major area infiltrated by the resistance forces.

The 45,000 people who were eliminated were not the elderly, weak, sick, or disabled at all. Instead, they were the rebel forces that he had secretly intercepted and transferred to the underground camp by his transport agents under the pretext of "strictly controlling the quality of blood materials."

In order to preserve these 45,000 embers and prevent the evil spirits from noticing the anomaly in the total number.

The transport commissioner of Nanling Prefecture had no choice but to forcibly arrest an equal number of innocent civilians from other remote towns who knew nothing about the self-mutilation method to fill the gaps.

Zhao Heng's fingers trembled slightly as he held the pen, but he did not hesitate for a moment and wrote with the force of a knife.

"allow."

The third book.

"allow."

The fourth book.

"allow."

……

The memorials from the twelve states of Dali were reviewed and approved one after another.

Every stroke of the pen is accompanied by the loss of hundreds of thousands of lives and the secret transmission of tens of thousands of sparks.

As the last booklet was closed, the night watchman's drum outside the palace sounded the fourth watch.

"Thump—thump thump!"

The dull drumbeats echoed through the deathly silent palace.

Zhao Heng put down his vermilion brush, as if all his strength had been drained, and leaned heavily against the back of the dragon throne.

He looked down at his hands.

The lines of his thumb, index finger, and even his palm were covered with red marks from cinnabar.

In the flickering candlelight, the color was so dark it was nauseating, almost exactly like dried blood.

"Zhang Shun".

Zhao Heng suddenly spoke, his voice hoarse as if sandpaper was being rubbed.

Zhang Shun, the chief eunuch who had been lurking in the shadows like a ghost, suddenly trembled and scrambled to the dragon table, kneeling on the ground.

"Your servant is here."

Zhao Heng stared blankly at the flickering candlelight.

"Of all the memorials approved tonight, how many people have been sent here this month across all twelve prefectures?"

Zhang Shun's body trembled violently.

As the head of the Directorate of Ceremonial, he naturally handled the compilation of these memorials.

He buried his head deep in the gold bricks, his voice trembling with undisguised fear.

"Your Majesty, the total number of blood tribute actually paid by the twelve prefectures this month is... a total of over 3,146,000 people."

Three million one hundred and forty thousand.

Just one month.

The Great Li Dynasty was about to pour over three million lives into the gaping maw of evil.

Over a year, that adds up to more than 30 million!

This is a number that could drive any normal person crazy instantly.

Zhao Heng didn't speak; he just stared quietly at his hands, which looked as if they were soaked in blood.

"Go down."

Zhang Shun felt as if he had been granted a pardon. He kowtowed and quietly withdrew from the Hall of Mental Cultivation.

In the vast palace, only Zhao Heng remained.

He knew very well that from the moment he wrote the first "approved," he was no longer a young hero.

He was an executioner.

He was the signatory of this massacre that killed three million people.

Even if those transport envoys were secretly rescuing some people and hiding them as seeds of resistance.

But only a very small number of people are ultimately saved.

The names of the vast majority of ordinary mortals are already condemned to death the moment he puts pen to paper.

These people will never know his predicament.

These people will only remember that it was this young emperor sitting on the dragon throne who, in order to please the evil spirits, drove them to the brink of extinction.

So in the future, if there is still a history to be written in this world.

His name, Zhao Heng, will not be written as that of a hero.

He was a tyrant.

A tyrant more bloodthirsty and insane than all the puppet emperors in the history of Dali combined.

Because the amount of blood tribute he personally signed was more than the total amount approved by all previous emperors combined.

But Zhao Heng did not regret it.

He told Su Yu in the secret chamber of the mine that his life was not his own.

Therefore, his reputation is naturally not his own.

Things that can be used should not be kept.

That's just how fate is.

The same applies to names.

Zhao Heng looked at the stack of folded papers and suddenly chuckled softly.

The smile was extremely faint, yet it conveyed a sense of utter devastation, as if the person had been utterly reduced to ashes.

"Let him be a tyrant then."

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside the window, the night was deep and dark, and not a single star could be seen in the hazy gray sky.

The night wind blew against his face, but it couldn't dispel the guilt in his heart that was driving him almost crazy.

Three million precious lives lost...

But he had no other choice, and there was nowhere to retreat.

Those who achieve great things must bear heavy responsibilities.

If this vast land of Dali is not turned into a sea of ​​blood, the spark of resistance will never be preserved.

The mortals of this world will be forced to serve as pigs and sheep for evil spirits generation after generation.

But someone has to wield this butcher's knife stained with the blood of the innocent.

Zhao Heng looked at the dark and oppressive sky, his eyes stinging and burning, his voice hoarse.

"The sins are committed in this generation... but the merits will last for generations..."

He murmured softly, as if delivering his final verdict on his sinful body.

"As long as this net is woven, as long as all mortals in the world can open their eyes and see it."

"Even if I, Zhao Heng, am torn to pieces, reviled by ten thousand men, and infamous for eternity..."

"That's worth it!"