Chapter Seventy-Five: The Final Stand!

Yang Fan took a step forward—three meters gone. Another step—six meters. A third—twelve meters. In the blink of an eye, Yang Fan, as sharp as an E-grade alloy blade, was already at the head of the Shadow Realm captain.

The captain’s eyes were fierce, his sword tip flicked. Suddenly, Yang Fan felt his long blade slipping from his grasp; his wrist trembled uncontrollably. Before he could react, pain blossomed in his abdomen. He was sent flying backward.

Hu Dao seized the moment while the captain attacked Yang Fan. His Crescent Blade spun horizontally, his aura exploding forth. The entire blade began to radiate light. In an instant, the Shadow Realm captain let out a miserable scream—a thick leg thudded to the ground.

Now, the captain collapsed in agony, his brow twisted in pain. Blood gushed from the severed left leg. A martial artist could control their blood, but only to a point; when a major artery erupted like this, not even a third-grade warrior could stem the flow.

Yang Fan struggled to his feet, gasping, pressing his stomach as he glared at the captain not far away. “Damn it, hit me again if you dare,” he cursed under his breath.

Hu Dao wasted no time. With a mighty swing, the Crescent Blade came crashing down. The captain raised his sword with both hands, trying to block. But at the moment of contact, the pain on his face twisted into terror, then despair. Without the support of his legs, he had lost his foundation. Sitting on the ground, he had no way to withstand Hu Dao’s fully-charged killing blow.

In a flash, the captain became two. Struck squarely on the crown, he neither blocked nor dodged—the outcome was inevitable.

Hu Dao withdrew his blade, turned, and gave Yang Fan a glance. “Don’t just stand there—go help the others!” he shouted, then charged off to the side.

Yang Fan stared deeply at the two corpses nearby, then gripped his blade tightly again and plunged into the fray.

He swept across the battlefield, no longer entering the third-grade combat circles—Hu Dao was enough there. Instead, Yang Fan entered the second-grade martial artists’ arena. His aura wrapped around his straight blade. He couldn’t claim one cut per foe, but few could withstand more than a few strikes from him.

Before long, what had been an evenly matched battle began to tip. With Yang Fan and Hu Dao’s help, more and more comrades finished their opponents and joined others still fighting.

Eventually, with most of the Shadow Realm’s second-grade warriors lying dead, the enemy began to flee.

Hu Dao led Yang Fan and the others in pursuit for ten miles, then returned.

...

The sky gradually darkened. The ruins—already sunless—were about to enter a moonless night. These ruins were strange; much could not be explained, and cultivators rarely had the energy to explore their mysteries.

Across the ruins, countless cities stood, almost always paired in opposition—where humans dwelled, the Shadow Realm would be nearby.

If someone were to look down from above, and pay close attention, they might see a small team of cultivators staggering home twenty-five miles from Ju Bei City.

Yang Fan was covered in blood, cradling his blade, his gaze fixed on those beside him, carried by comrades.

They had won.

Once he and Hu Dao had slain the enemy captain, victory was all but certain. In war, when the commander falls, morale collapses.

Hu Dao led at the front, his body slashed and cut. Though the bleeding had stopped, the sight was all the more terrifying. His mood was heavy. Victory, yes—but as some bastard once said, “Without sacrifice, there is no victory.” Every campaign, win or lose, some comrades always fall.

Before each expedition, Hu Dao would tell himself that he’d grow used to it. But every return reminded him how fragile he truly was.

Emotion, they say, is contagious. The entire squad was subdued.

Hu Dao glanced at Yang Fan in the middle, his gaze distant. When this kid had been shoved into the team by the commander, Hu Dao had been most displeased. Bringing in a new recruit before battle was a taboo, but the commander’s attitude had brooked no refusal. Hu Dao had no choice.

He never imagined that their survival would depend on this newcomer.

Thinking of this, Hu Dao called to Yang Fan, beckoning him over.

Yang Fan, equally somber, stepped forward. “What is it?” he said in a low voice.

“Nothing—just wanted to thank you. Without you, we might not have made it back,” Hu Dao said.

Yang Fan looked back, scanning the squad. Of the original fifty-one, only about thirty trudged onward.

He gave a bitter smile. “Still, so many died.”

Hu Dao patted Yang Fan’s shoulder in comfort. “Don’t dwell on it—war always claims lives. The Shadow Realm has grown stronger. Their scouting squads used to number around a hundred, but rarely had more than three or four third-grade warriors. This time, they had five. Without you, I might have been overwhelmed.”

Yang Fan smiled but said nothing.

Hu Dao regarded the young man at his side and continued, “This was your first time on the battlefield, wasn’t it?”

Yang Fan nodded.

“Get your head right. The road ahead is long. I’ve been through this countless times—since I first entered the ruins, every battle, some leave, some I remember, some I forget. But all are glorious. In the ruins, no matter who you were before, here you’re a warrior. Warriors defend home and country. To die on the frontier—nothing could be more honorable.”

Yang Fan rubbed his blade, then looked up at Hu Dao. “Brother Hu, I understand what you’re saying, but seeing comrades carrying fallen brothers on their backs, I can’t help..."

Hu Dao’s hand on Yang Fan’s shoulder gave a reassuring pat. “It’s all right. On the way back, mourn, cry if you must. But once we’re in the city, you can’t show weakness.”

A smile forced its way onto Hu Dao’s face. Then he spoke.

Yang Fan was puzzled. “Why?”

Hu Dao raised his head, his eyes seemed to shine. “It’s an unwritten rule of the ruins—who knows which bastard started it. As long as we return victorious, no matter the casualties, once we enter the city, we announce the triumph to boost morale.”

Yang Fan, surprised, looked at the corpses carried by his comrades. “Does it work?”

Hu Dao gave a wry smile. “In a way, yes. In a way, no. Warriors aren’t fools; every victory brings back more bodies, it’s obvious. But news of victory always lifts spirits. Everyone knows we’ve lost men—but the Shadow Realm has lost even more.”

Yang Fan pressed further. “Brother Hu, what’s our casualty ratio compared to the Shadow Realm? It’s my first campaign, I have no idea.”

“Usually one to three. For every one we lose, they lose three—sometimes more.”

Yang Fan scratched his head, frowning. “Their losses are that high? I didn’t think they were weak today.”

Hu Dao smiled bitterly, steadying himself. “They’re not too weak, nor are we too strong. At the same rank, strength only goes so far.

Compared to them, we’re simply more willing to kill. They’re the attackers—if today fails, there’s always tomorrow. But for us, our home is behind us, everything we want to protect lies at the end of our passage. We cannot retreat.

Like today: when all their third-grade warriors were dead, most of their second-grade were slaughtered, the rest retreated instinctively. We’re different. Even if all our third-grade fall, the survivors won’t retreat, because there’s nowhere to go. We’re soldiers—obedience is our duty. Without orders to withdraw, we fight to the death.

Do you know what the Shadow Realm calls us? They say we’re a bunch of lunatics—no matter the losses, we never back down. Every battle breaks out, but it’s the Shadow Realm, whose numbers far exceed ours, that can’t endure.

Yang Fan, this is what cultivators are today—no, this is what warriors are. Fighting to the death without retreat is something most here can do.”

Yang Fan fell silent.

Fight to the death, never retreat.

Just four words—but is it really so easy?

When familiar faces fall one by one, when every inch of ground is soaked in blood—can you really fight to the end?

Yang Fan couldn’t imagine it. To fight on, knowing you’re doomed—is that foolishness?

He didn’t know. But whether or not it was foolish, his heart had been shaken.

The rest of the journey was silent; each person lost in thought.

Finally, the towering city walls appeared.

The bright red national flag fluttered from the battlements.

“Hoo-ha!” Hu Dao shouted.

Yang Fan hadn’t realized what was happening, but suddenly the atmosphere around him changed. The squad, once as dead as stagnant water, seemed to come alive. Everyone’s faces began to shed their gloom, replaced by excitement and joy.

Yang Fan smiled. Such lovable people.

It was like a traveler returning home—reporting only good news, not bad. Families knew life outside was harsh, but this was the last strength of a returning wanderer.

Soon, the group reached the city walls.

The tall walls stood before them. Yang Fan saw clearly that some squad members’ eyes were moist, some bodies trembled, others smiled even brighter.

The gates swung open. Instantly, dozens of cultivators poured out, leaping past Yang Fan and his comrades, standing guard over this territory.