【Interstellar Contract Magician】Ruyuanke

Chapter 540 [Empire] is quieter and colder than the battlefield.

I don't think I'm naturally rebellious.

But since I was a child, I have hated others teaching me how to do things, especially that kind of tone of voice, as if they were born with the power to control my destiny.

And he - Ye Lin, is exactly that kind of person.

Under the banner of blood relationship, they think they are qualified to guide, correct and even arrange my life.

Clearly, there were years between us as long as a trench. We had never truly stood side by side, nor shared even a peaceful dinner, but he could use the word "brother" to press me into his straight and cold track.

It's like training an unqualified soldier.

I hate this feeling - being looked down upon, being treated by him as a piece of waste that is neither tasty nor discarded, and can be smoothed out at any time and stuffed into the future he has planned.

What's more, it's not just my face that he hates.

What he hated was my uncontrolled ways, my unbridled survival logic, and the words I yelled at him that night in the capital Star Guard City: "I don't want to be like you."

That night, artillery fire tore the sky apart from the city walls.

He was dressed in military uniform, calm, resolute and precise like any well-trained soldier.

And I, carrying the plants on my back, fought with a group of "miscellaneous" mercenaries in the turbulence and blood until dawn.

We are people from two different worlds.

He chose empire, army and order.

I chose myself, my friends, and how to live.

So, when he stood next to the pile of corpses and didn't even look at me - that was not indifference, but tacit opposition.

I hate him. And coincidentally, he hates me too.

This is so good.

At least they both knew it.

I thought that was the end of it.

Just like many times, get through it, end it, close it, and move on.

But it didn't.

The inevitable unexpected will always come. It doesn't need much preparation, just like a broken stake in the snow, with a "crack" without any warning.

Of course, I can understand the inevitability of this "accident" in my mind.

There are swarms of insects on the front lines, and corpses in the rear. The battle is not so clean. Death does not fall in line obediently.

But when it really hits you, the impact will crush all understanding into pieces.

That night, the mourning shed was too small. There were so many bodies that even the ice and snow could no longer serve as a natural "cold storage." The shed, which had been covered overnight, was already packed, with the faces of the dead piled on top of each other, the white cloth stained with blood in varying shades of color.

The wind blew over, carrying with it the smell of iron. Not the distant, bloody smell of a battlefield, but a hot, wet smell that rushed straight into my nose, like a hand gripping my throat.

When the boiling steam rose from the snow, I was even stunned for a moment - at first glance, the hot mist looked like smoke drifting outside the kitchen.

But I knew it wasn't soup. It was blood.

Hot. Sticky. Warm like a recently deceased person.

Some people were busy registering and moving things, while others were silently wiping away tears, but the crying was so small that it was almost swallowed by the wind.

The "battle damage" that was originally abstract in my mind was vividly visualized into scenes.

The snow melted beneath the blood, becoming muddy and sticky, with a strange sound when stepped on. When you stepped on it, there was a "squeak" sound, like stepping into a mouthful of hot soup.

The night was torn into broken boundaries by the swaying lights in the mourning tent, and the yellow-white light reflected on the white cloth and the dark red traces.

This is the first time I truly feel that the so-called "post-war" period is quieter and colder than the battlefield.

Qianmo was beside me, saying nothing. We were both silent.

Some things can be nailed into the mind even in the wind and snow without words.