This was the past of a legendary commander.
It was an era of chaos, where warlords vied for supremacy and heroes rose from the strife. As a man of Qin fortunate enough to survive to adulthood, the boy naturally enlisted to fight for his country.
By then, the Qin state had long torn up its alliance with Jin and set its sights eastward—to crush the Three Jins and conquer the world.
As a mere foot soldier, the boy stepped onto the battlefield without hesitation.
In Qin, promotion was simple: kill enemies and survive. And this boy, as if blessed by heaven, emerged unscathed from countless battles, his merits piling up like scars.
Over years of campaigning, the boy grew into a man, forged bonds with comrades, and gradually began to question:
Once, his closest friend—the man who had saved his life—died in a skirmish.
The young man still remembered the look in his friend's eyes before the battle: a mix of dread and resignation, his sword hand trembling.
"I killed a man once, long ago. He begged for mercy, saying he had children to raise—that he couldn't die here."
"I took his head. The reward bought enough gold that even if I died, my parents could live comfortably in the capital."
"Now... he's come for me."
It was delusion, of course. The dead don't return. Centuries of warfare had woven hatreds too tangled to unravel.
Yet his friend died all the same, cut down by a stranger's blade.
When he slew his friend's killer, the helmeted man had laughed wildly, screaming that he'd avenged his father before breaking into sobs. The young man ran him through without a word.
He never lost. Not then, nor in the seventy-odd battles to come.
But the dying man's curse haunted him still:
"I have a child... He will avenge me..." The enemy—younger in years but older in sorrow—turned bloodshot eyes to the impassive Qin soldier. "You... damned Qin savage... My son... the sons of Zhao... will take your head..."
The sword withdrew. A horizontal slash.
Blood fountained. The dead man's eyes stayed open.
The young man didn't know if he beheaded the corpse to claim a reward—or to silence those final words.
"My friend... I've avenged you."
"And I understand now why war never ends."
Once, a fool vowed to move mountains, declaring "my sons and grandsons will never cease until it is done!"
Now, after a century of bloodshed, national hatreds were beyond counting. Neither side could retreat.
"You killed an enemy soldier for your country's sake—a righteous act. His son slew you for vengeance—a filial duty. I, as your friend, killed him in turn—a debt repaid."
"His child? Mine? His friends? My comrades? His nation? My homeland?"
No longer a boy, the man spoke softly:
"I will not let this chaos endure. I will end the Warring States era with my own hands—unify all under heaven through the slaughter of six kingdoms."
Leaving the quartermaster's tent, he donned the armor of a Left Chief of Commoners and turned to his patron, the noble Wei Ran.
It was autumn. The air was sharp, the world withering, the scent of slaughter thick on the wind.
The general who sought to end war with war stepped onto the stage history had prepared for him.
Eyes fluttered open. Sunlight leaked through the curtains, gilding golden hair and the tears streaking a beautiful face.
The Emperor awoke from her dream. The documents on her desk, worked through all night, seemed no fewer.
Her whisper hung lonely in the silent room.
After a long pause, resolve hardened her gaze. A pale, delicate hand reached for the papers.
[Merciless Execution of the Defeated: EX]
The resentment of the dead becomes a bloody aura, both corroding and empowering its bearer.
Cursed for slaughtering 400,000 surrendered soldiers, he should have died from hatred's weight. But with a purpose grander than his sins, the dead became mere stepping stones to glory.
Killing brought no joy. Ending war through slaughter was a sin against heaven, damning him to a wretched death. Yet even with blood-soaked hands, he would awaken the sleeping dragon of Qin!
——This was the source of Sakatsuki's monstrous blood-axe.
The more lives he took, the thicker the bloody aura, allowing ever more terrifying manifestations.
At Nero's rescue, surrounded by corpses, he'd conjured a dozens-meter-long axe to cleave through hundreds. Here, without fresh kills, the aura was thinner—yet still enough to shatter the enemy's gates in one strike.
Seizing the enemy's stunned paralysis, Sakatsuki raised his hand again.
Fire ignited. Even in broad daylight, the flickering flames on each javelin promised annihilation.
Under [Ten Strategists of the Martial Temple], his men moved as one—cool as machines, precise as a single mind. The incendiary spears rained down on grain stores, supplies, anything flammable!
Instantly, the camp became an inferno. Soldiers who hadn't even donned armor were engulfed, screaming as they charred to ash.
Amid the chaos, the white-haired general didn't glance back. He wheeled his horse.
"All troops, retreat! Inform the Legate of this enemy stronghold—tell him to send the main force!"
His bellow carried clearly. The thirty-man squad charged, bloody mist swirling around them as they tore toward the exit.
"Stop them!" A centurion drew his sword, blocking the only path with his men.
The defensive traps were useless—the attack had come from within. Yet the Romans formed a shield wall with trained efficiency, layered hides creating an impassable barrier.
Meanwhile, from the burning camp, another centurion roared orders, rallying survivors to encircle and annihilate the raiders.
The leader's words marked them as scouts. If they escaped, Rome's legions would descend—and slaughter them all!
"You, put out the fires! The rest, with me! Not one escapes!"
Thus, the noose tightened: an army at their backs, an iron wall ahead.
The white-haired man only smirked. As one, he and his men drew swords, blades and hooves sheathed in crimson energy.
The thirty became a bloody arrow, piercing the hundred-man wall.
Screams filled the air.
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