Chapter 721: Chapter 700: Why

Illusions flicker before my eyes, forming a strange world of countless black and white lines.

Gradually, the black-and-white lines multiply, sharpening the image, yet it remains slightly blurred.

The dense black lines roar as they gather into flames.

Before me, black lines weave into flames, stretching forward, reaching Pine Bone Peak.

Tens of thousands of enemy soldiers charge like a pride of lions.

They have airplanes, tanks, and heavy artillery.

They possess the world’s strongest equipment and glorious battle records.

On the small hill before them, a team of more than a hundred guards the key path, tasked with holding off the enemy, ensuring our forces complete the encirclement.

The terrain is perilous, making it impossible for ten thousand troops to charge simultaneously; the enemy can only send several hundred at a time to attack our forces.

Yet the enemy’s heavy firepower, including planes, tanks, and artillery, bombards us nonstop.

Light infantry meets the enemy at ten times their number.

On the slope, elite enemy forces begin their ascent and attack, the gunfire ceaseless.

Above, airplanes roar, bombs drop relentlessly.

Incendiary bombs and gasoline bombs spread like hellfire, covering the battlefield, scorching red rocks.

In the distance, tanks and artillery roar continuously, like giant feet stomping repeatedly on the narrow battlefield.

Our forces hold steadfastly.

One by one, soldiers fall on the battlefield.

One by one, well-equipped enemy soldiers fall at the bottom of the slope.

The enemy rushes forward, bullets are gone; grasping the enemy, they roll into the blazing gasoline bomb drop zone.

When the enemy closes in, comrades leap to protect others, plunging off the mountain with the enemies together.

The enemy uses every means, launching wave after wave of attacks.

However, from morning till afternoon, a hundred men hold their ground.

The enemy’s ten thousand troops retreat, fleeing through other routes to evade our encirclement.

After the battle, we lose over a hundred men, the enemy over five hundred.

Successfully halting the enemy, allowing us to finish the final encirclement.

They are the most lovable people.

Only they can withstand the test of history.

The black lines continue to spread.

On a battlefield, one person wields an old rifle, lurking, moving, shooting, retreating…

Thirty days, four hundred bullets, killing over two hundred enemies, including significant targets.

On one battlefield, comrades fall, leaving only one person.

This person picks up the last weapon, fighting like a leopard in the mountains.

One person.

Climbing the mountains, slaying foes, seizing a battlefield.

Climbing the mountains, slaying foes, capturing the second battlefield.

Climbing the mountains, slaying foes, capturing the third battlefield.

One person, one gun, killing and injuring over a hundred enemies, capturing three battlefields, occupying three hills.

One person.

Like a War God.

The black lines continue to spread, reaching the northern winter.

Approaching a lake, the fiery lines slowly transform into patches of ice and snow.

The black lines gradually retreat, white lines spread.

White lines rise and fall, sketching out one ice sculpture after another in the icy landscape.

These ice sculptures lie in wait on the enemy’s inevitable path.

These ice sculptures hold weapons.

These ice sculptures maintain combat postures.

These ice sculptures await the enemy.

Over a hundred ice sculptures, over a hundred heroes, perished, yet never left the battlefield.

The ice sculpture battalion withstands the test of history.

The lines flow forward, once more transforming from ice to fire.

Incendiary bombs fall from the sky, intense flames engulf the grass where one person lies in ambush.

With flames upon him, motionless; dead.

Move, alert the enemy, the mission fails.

In the chaotic black flames, he grits his teeth, motionless, silent.

Blood flows along cracked teeth, seeping outward.

Motionless, silent.

When the attack’s bugle call sounds, around him, in spaces not covered by flames, soldiers rise and charge at the enemy.

He never rises again.

The lines continue forward, arriving at Little Ridge.

This is the strategic point that must be held.

This is an order.

On the mountain, shells rain down.

Below, enemy troops gather like clouds.

A platoon, less than fifty men.

They stand on the battlefield, enduring the enemy’s incessant assaults.

Once, twice, thrice…

Dozens of men using the most basic weapons, facing aircraft and artillery.

For a day and night.

Enemies fall in heaps at the line.

Our soldiers fall one by one on the battlefield.

When the enemy launches the ninth assault, only one remains on the ground.

He glances at the charging enemies, then looks at his resting comrades on the battlefield.

He picks up a rifle, empty, tosses it aside, picks another, tosses that aside…

All ammo exhausted.

He removes his will, places it under a stone.

Turning, he grabs the last bag of explosives, departs the battlefield, and hides.

When the enemy rushes forward, he suddenly emerges, rushing to the densest part of the enemy’s formation, pulling the fuse.

In the tremendous explosion, he perishes with over forty enemies.

The number of a platoon.

As many as his comrades.

The enemy’s ninth assault fails, retreating like a tide.

The battlefield is held.

Black winds sweep through, scatter stones, his will’s pages blow open, countless words converge into three sentences.

Do not believe in uncompleted missions.

Do not believe in insurmountable obstacles.

Do not believe in invincible enemies.

The world before him suddenly transforms into chaotic black-and-white lines.

Zhou Leng hears a song nearby.

“A wide river, waves rolling wide… wind blows rice flowers, fragrant on both banks… my home is right…”

Zhou Leng lowers his head slightly, repeatedly reciting three sentences.

“Do not believe in uncompleted missions.”

“I don’t believe there are insurmountable difficulties.”

“I don’t believe there are undefeatable enemies.”

…

The three disbeliefs.

The body of a mortal, the will of steel, the ambition of martial arts.

Zhou Leng recited again and again, never stopping, repeatedly.

Gradually, the three sentences merged into one, converging into a great bell, echoing through the heavens and earth.

“Why do they fight?”

Zhou Leng once again sat for three days, giving many answers, but couldn’t find the ultimate one.

For the law? The law was destroyed.

For justice? Justice was manipulated.

For the world? The world was divided.

For them? They had fallen into demon.

Humans have an instinct, an instinct to follow the example of those above.

What those above do, most humans will do.

The decline and collapse of all human nations and groups always follow the same pattern, always have the same reason.

What those above do, those below will do.

Evil is more fruitful than cockroaches in reproduction.

Zhou Leng couldn’t find the answer.

Maligned, framed, and hurt, Zhou Leng, like millions of others, couldn’t find the answer.

After a long time, Zhou Leng stood up.

Though without an answer, he found the question.

The deepest question at the heart of martial arts.

Why fight?

The “East Monarch’s Collection” made it very clear.

The reason the Human Race’s Ten Realms War ended in a tragic defeat was that many didn’t know why they fought.

The reason the Eagle Alliance was defeated by the Dragon Country was also because they didn’t know why they fought.

Zhao Dongjun once said, if one day the Dragon Country is defeated, it will be because of the same problem.

Why fight?

Zhou Leng stood up, lost and disheartened, looking at the world ahead.

Every generation has its own Shang Gan Ling.

The shoulders of Zhou Leng’s generation are burdened with the Shang Gan Ling left by the previous generation.

This generation marches forward with heavy burdens.

A few from this generation, in Xiong City, by the sea, in Maple Country, in the Eagle Alliance, in Kangaroo Country, in the Seagull Alliance… striving for the peace of all.

Then why does this generation fight?

Zhou Leng was perplexed, Zhou Leng was confused, silently leaving Shang Gan Ling, instinctively running to the next place.

The wind roared by his ears, the image of Shang Gan Ling continuously flashed before his eyes, replaying over and over.

But no one could answer that final question.

Without answering that question, there is no martial ambition.

There will be no perfect Martial Saint, no qualification for Ascension to Divinity.

He won’t be a true Martial Artist.

Zhou Leng’s whole body was heavy, his spirit exhausted.

More exhausted than on the long road of enlightenment.

On the road of enlightenment, it was just physical fatigue, just the fatigue of consciousness.

Now, it was the fatigue of the spirit, the exhaustion of the soul.

Leaving the Korean Peninsula, once again treading the vast ocean, Zhou Leng walked swiftly over water.

His eyes hollow, losing focus, like a puppet, pulled forward by strings.

One phrase repeated in his mind.

“Why do I fight?”

The more he asked, the more bewildered Zhou Leng became.

Suddenly, a dark shadow leapt out of the sea ahead.

A troop of over a thousand sea sirens shouted, charging at Zhou Leng.

Zhou Leng paid no attention, continuing forward.

The two sides grew closer and closer.

When they were just twenty meters apart, Zhou Leng still didn’t see them, merely stamped heavily on the sea surface with his right foot.

In front, the blue-black sea rolled.

On both sides of the sea siren army, two towering white waves rose.

The white waves, like walls, spanning hundreds of meters, transformed into two giant hands, clapping together heavily.

Bang!

Over a thousand sea sirens were smashed into pulp.

Splash…

The waves fell, the sea turning blood red.

Zhou Leng was already thousands of meters away, his eyes still hollow.

Night deepened, Zhou Leng continued to run forward.

Rucheng.

Wang Boxiong bid farewell to his wife and son, boarding a demonized plane to Xiong City.

On the demonized plane, he sat beside Chen Shouhu.

Chen Shouhu abruptly turned around, looking incredulously at Wang Boxiong.

He stared for a full minute.

Wang Boxiong remained calm.

“You’re going to Xiong City too?”

“Why can’t I go?”

“I’m asking, you’re going to Xiong City too?”

“Why can’t I go?”

Chen Shouhu grinned, revealing his white teeth.

“Good, very good.”

The demonized plane took off, sweeping across the beautiful landscape, landing in the National Capital Xiong City.

Mine.

Giant mining dump trucks drove out, heading towards the Xiong City Suburb.

The mining dump trucks were not just larger than ordinary vehicles, they far exceeded the large transport trucks commonly seen on roads.

Standing nearly three stories tall, their maximum load capacity even exceeded five hundred tons, equaling five large transport trucks.

In one of the trucks, Hu Yi had a cigarette in his mouth, his lips slightly curled.

Sun Family Store.

Zhang Xinglie looked at his sleeping wife.

They had married a month ago.

He left the room, but couldn’t resist going back, bending down to lean his ear against her belly.

The Grandmaster Realm allowed him to hear a little life growing inside.

He listened for a long, long time, then stood up, looking at a USB drive on the table.

The USB contained a video he recorded a few days ago.

For his wife, and for his child.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep