As they left that darkened room, they continued deeper into the palace, only to round a corner when suddenly a formation flared to life. Spiritual energy surged violently, forcibly separating the two of them.
Gu Qing reacted instantly, drawing his sword to break the formation, but the spiritual energy scattered wildly, slipping beyond his control. The array was designed to target the mind, and as he tried to call out to Milton, the world before him blurred, dissolving into a chaotic swirl of light and shadow.
Milton, meanwhile, was yanked into a hallucinatory illusion.
Light and shadow reconstructed around him, and he found himself standing before the worn, faded gates of an old house—his childhood home, or rather, his prison.
Voices of quarrels and the thud of heavy blows came from inside. No sooner had he pushed the door open than he saw his mother being kicked to the ground by his father, blood at the corner of her mouth.
“What do you think you are? Nothing but a low-ranking female!” his father roared, bringing the whip down again.
Young Milton rushed forward to protect her, only to be beaten alongside her, his face bruised and bloodied.
It was then he learned the cruel truth: his father often “traded” his mother to other males for military provisions or power. Each time she returned home battered, he wanted desperately to fight back, yet could only be held in her arms as she whispered soothingly:
“It’s alright, Milton. I’m fine… you’re the most important.”
He clung to the thought that at least he still had his mother.
Even as his siblings, born of his father and concubines, treated him with disdain or hostility, he didn’t care. But war gradually stole her health—her mind fracturing, her body weakening. Each time he came home, she looked more worn, more fragile.
He once knelt before his father, begging him to save her. His father, laughing with a concubine, shook his head: “If she dies, I’ll replace her. Why waste resources?”
Ultimately, she succumbed to the collapse of her spirit and died, her suffering unbearable, her body left unpreserved. His father coldly commanded: “Just bury her.”
That night, Milton sat awake for hours, learning for the first time the true meaning of hatred.
The illusion shifted, and he now found himself at a gathering of aristocratic males, attending with his father.
He had never liked such occasions. Being striking in appearance, he had always drawn attention—greedy, lecherous eyes lingering on him.
That night, one male with a sinister presence conversed with his father, eyes wandering over him, a suggestive smirk curling at his lips.
Returning home that evening, he felt inexplicably exhausted. After dinner, he fell into a deep sleep.
Half-conscious, he sensed something wrong. Someone was touching him; his clothes were stripped, his body burning hot. Limbs heavy as lead, he tried to open his eyes, trapped in a nightmare.
Suddenly, he woke fully to find himself bound to the bed, naked.
He struggled violently, but the drug’s effect and the weight of the chains rendered him powerless.
The male leered at him, licking his neck, voice vile and unrestrained: “Your father gave you to me, you worthless female. Tonight, I’ll teach you what it means to serve a male.”
Milton’s eyes widened.
Anger, shame, and fear ignited a scorching fire in him, consuming his will. His body stirred with the drug’s influence, the insect markings glowing, heat surging—but his mind crystallized in despair.
He gritted his teeth, forcing himself calm.
“This won’t do…” he whispered softly, coaxing: “Let me go, and I can serve you properly.”
The male laughed, tugging his legs apart roughly: “Such a clever little thing, couldn’t wait, could you?”
But just as he lunged—
Milton’s gaze shifted completely. No longer helpless, no longer afraid.
It was the calm that comes after burning away despair, a cold resolve to never be trampled again.
He exhaled slowly, voice low and resolute:
“Enough. I am not something you can trample.”
With that, a surge of spiritual power erupted. The illusion shattered, fragments of the world around him torn apart.
He stood in the void, battered and bloodied, yet reborn from fire and blood like a sharpened blade, spine straight, eyes blazing.
He was no longer the child begging his father to save his mother, no longer the female crying silently in the night.
He was Milton Collins—General, hero on the battlefield, reborn from the crucible of hell.
Milton awoke abruptly from the illusion, drenched in sweat. Gasping for air, he noticed Gu Qing still standing beside him, eyes closed, brow furrowed as if still caught in the illusion’s grip.
Instinctively, he reached out, trying to rouse him.
In the next instant, a cold light flashed—Gu Qing’s sword struck with a frostlike force, slicing through the void.
The illusion shattered like a broken mirror, countless shards of light scattering into the air.
“Don’t touch!” Gu Qing’s low shout came too late.
Milton’s hand had already brushed the fragments of spiritual energy. In the next moment, he was drawn into another memory stream—unrelated to him, yet unbearably real.
It was a picturesque village, green mountains standing like screens, bamboo swaying in the wind, leaves glinting silver in the sunlight. A clear stream wound past the village, gurgling and reflecting the pale blue sky. Milton stood frozen, barely daring to breathe—the air carried the scent of earth and wildflowers, fresh enough to cleanse the soul.
Scattered cottages creaked in the breeze, smoke curling from chimneys like soft white veils ascending into the sky. Villagers went about their chores, fetching water, tending fields, calling out to one another; children laughed and chased one another like silver bells. The entire village was steeped in peace and the slow rhythm of life.
Milton’s chest tightened—this place bore no resemblance to the interstellar era he knew. No hovercars roaring, no flickering holographic screens, no cold technology. Every detail felt ancient, as if time had reversed. He was a stranger here.
“…Where is this…?” he whispered, and before he could continue, a group of young children ran past him.
Run past? Milton froze, finally realizing—this was an illusion.
He followed the path along the paddy dikes, drawn to a mud-walled, tile-roofed farmhouse. Suddenly, a clear voice called out:
“Qing’er—don’t fall! Wait for me!”
A child replied: “I’m not scared, I want to help Father turn the soil!”
Milton’s gaze fixed on the small figure running into the field. Short black hair slightly tousled in the sun, round eyes shining with curiosity and determination. Though small, the child swung a hoe nearly as big as himself, clumsy but earnest, soil flying with each stroke.
Occasionally, he would look up, beaming like a stream in spring—pure and radiant. Milton’s heart jolted—those features bore a striking resemblance to Gu Qing.
Nearby stood a man and woman—the man tall and broad, hands calloused from years of labor, gentle eyes filled with patience and resolve; the woman supple, sun-darkened and weathered, yet her gaze overflowing with warmth and care, her maternal presence undeniable.
Milton suddenly realized: “These… are Gu Qing’s parents?”
The man patted the child’s head, smiling warmly: “We never had schooling, only these mountains and rivers… so we named you ‘Qing.’”
“May you live steadfast and determined, like these mountains and waters.”
The woman smiled softly: “He will. He’s our treasure.”
“Mm!” Young Qing looked up, radiant, voice ringing across the fields.
Milton crouched, whispering to himself: “So… that’s how your name came about. So adorable.”
The child could not hear him, simply hugging their legs, tiny hands shaking gently, innocent and untarnished, like a flower nurtured in warmth and love.
In the next instant, the scene shifted.
The sky turned crimson—flames and thick smoke erupted on the horizon, painting the heavens blood-red.
Villagers scattered in panic, carrying children and possessions, stumbling over dikes and rocks. Fire devoured straw and homes; ash swirled in the wind, enveloping the village in a chaotic red-and-gray inferno.
Suddenly, bandits charged in, hooves pounding like thunder, the earth shaking beneath them. Blades flashed, blood splattered—some fell instantly, others fought desperately but were pierced by sharp steel. Mothers shielded children, only to be kicked aside, screams shattering amidst the chaos. Elderly begged for mercy, trampled instantly.
Villagers fled in terror, cries and wails blending into a chaotic chorus. Children’s cries, animals’ screams, collapsing doors—all a cacophony as if the world itself was crumbling.
Loot was taken; grain and livestock stolen. Flames consumed huts, the night sky reflecting a hell of fire and blood. The bandits’ faces twisted in madness and bloodlust.
In an instant, the once-idyllic village became a charred wasteland, fire and blood everywhere, with terrified figures fleeing.
Milton stood on the muddy path, eyes scanning frantically.
The flames turned his violet eyes crimson. He forced down the rising panic, voice trembling with urgency: “Gu Qing! —Where are you!”
He dashed across the muddy dikes, the world twisted into a burning hellscape. He knew it was an illusion, untouchable and unchangeable, yet a desperate pain drove him forward.
Finally, he reached Gu Qing’s house.
The sight stole his breath—Gu Qing’s father raised a hoe, blocking the doorway, shoulders tense, a wall of flesh and determination holding all threats at bay.
But in the next instant, a long blade burst through the broken door. Wood splintered, blood sprayed, and the steel pierced his father’s chest.
He let out a short grunt; the hoe slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a dull thud. Blood poured like rain, staining the doorframe and soil beneath.
“Qing! Run!!”
The roar split the air, shredding Milton’s heart.
Gu Qing’s mother, trembling, grabbed the child and fled through a window, glancing back at her husband, tears streaming, biting back sobs. She wove through the grass, covering his mouth, whispering:
“Don’t make a sound, understand? Wait for me to distract them, then… then run yourself!”
Young Qing clutched her clothing, sobbing violently: “I don’t want to! I don’t want you to go!”
“Qing…” she choked, tears wetting her face. “You must live—longer, better than any of us…”
“No! I want to stay with you!” he wailed, heartbroken.
Suddenly, his mother slapped him hard—the sharp crack piercing the roar of fire and screams.
“Living… is more important than anything!” she shouted hoarsely.
Then she turned and vanished into the inferno without hesitation, cutting all ties.
Milton’s chest ached violently. He wanted desperately to reach out and grab Gu Qing, but his hand passed through nothing.
He could only watch helplessly as young Qing, face streaked with tears and red handprints, curled into a ball in the grass, shoulders shaking uncontrollably, biting back cries to remain silent.
From the distance came his mother’s sharp scream.
The child bolted, stumbling through the forest. Short black hair plastered with sweat and dust, round eyes wide with fear, darting like a fawn fleeing predators. Every breath choked with sobs, yet he ran, refusing to stop.
Milton’s heart felt as if being ripped apart. He could only watch the small figure disappear into the flames and smoke, vanishing completely.
“Enough… enough…”
Milton finally sank to his knees in the field, tears streaming, chest burning like fire. His trembling hands reached into the air, grasping at nothing—the figure he longed to hold was gone, leaving only the deepest ache of attachment.
The scene shifted again. A bustling marketplace appeared. Blue stone streets stretched into the distance, flanked by wooden buildings with carved beams, colored lanterns swaying under eaves. Vendors called out, carts creaked, incense wafted from restaurants, laughter and clinking cups forming a lively symphony.
Milton scanned the crowd, eyes catching a dark corner. A group of boys surrounded a crouched, emaciated child, mocking and striking him.
“No parents, you little bastard!” “Filthy beggar!”
Fists rained down; the child curled into a ball to protect himself. The boys left, laughing.
Milton rushed forward, wanting to shield the child, but his hand passed through air, touching nothing. Helplessness and fury surged within him, shaking his entire body.
The child struggled to sit up, clothes torn, body bruised and scarred—it was Gu Qing.
Young Qing clutched a dirt-stained bun to his chest, holding onto the last remnant of support. Mud coated his sleeves; small wrists poked from tattered sleeves, yet his expression remained stubborn, quiet, the words soft as wind through rice stalks:
“…Luckily, it wasn’t taken.”
Cold resolve hid behind the faint despair in his gaze, a small flame struggling to survive in the shadows.
Milton’s insect instincts flared, almost leaping out of his skin. Clenching his fists, he swore to himself:
“These bastards… if they’re still here, I will not spare them!”