Han Qingyu thought it over for perhaps three minutes, or maybe five or six. The scene was in complete disarray, and so was his mind; settling his resolve was no easy task.
Finally,
"Scatter!"
With that sudden, low bark, the battle seemed to reach its end at last.
At the very climax of the clash, the people carrying the metal boxes leaped apart of their own accord.
This maneuver clearly was not a retreat.
Utterly defying Han Qingyu's expectations, after the brutal struggle, they were going to win. Wave after wave of relentless, heedless assaults had gradually slowed the two robots, leaving them battered and incapable of fighting on.
Then came a continuous, tooth-grating low rumble. Without any burst of fire or flash, the conical "UFO" not far away began to swell, crack, and shatter… Black shards of iron flew in all directions.
Almost simultaneously, plumes of black vapor billowed from the heavily scarred and punctured "suits of armor." Amid the same low sound, they too fractured and burst apart.
Throughout all this, everyone stayed pressed against the ground to take cover. This burst of shrapnel seemed far less violent than the piece that had flown during the battle earlier.
Han Qingyu naturally did the same.
*Thank goodness there's a ditch,*
he thought, only for something to suddenly strike him.
Flung amid the swirling iron fragments from the "self-destructing" UFO, a dull golden piece of metal about the size of a broad bean struck the earth, tumbled, and rolled right into the ditch where Han Qingyu lay.
It felt heavier than it looked, resembling a lump of iron melted down at high heat into a twisted, irregular shape. Yet it was not scorching hot… Han Qingyu knew for sure, because it had hit him square on.
Aside from the faint impact, it was not hot at all.
Han Qingyu awkwardly pushed himself up slightly and glanced back. Shards of iron whistled over his head, and he hurriedly buried himself back into the ditch.
After a moment, the scattered rain of debris finally ceased. Anxious voices called out in confusion, "Captain Lao!" "Captain Lao!" Footsteps rushed in from all directions, hurried and chaotic.
Han Qingyu was given no more time to think or decide. The moment the rain of fragments stopped falling through the woods, several people carrying metal boxes charged straight to where he was.
They had clearly come for the wounded man, and in doing so, they naturally spotted Han Qingyu.
Their gazes locked.
"You…"
Han Qingyu slowly sat up. "Hello… I just saved him."
"…"
"Really," Han Qingyu said earnestly.
* * *
In a battle of nearly forty against two, four were dead and nine wounded—not counting minor scrapes or anyone still able to scramble to their feet.
For the first time in his life, Han Qingyu stood face to face with such a gruesome, bloody scene.
Some were gathering bodies and severed limbs, some were tending to the wounded, and others were erasing their tracks. Most of the rest held compact instruments, combing the perimeter with meticulous care, picking up even the tiniest fragment of iron and piling them together.
They were sweeping the battlefield, collecting the fragments like war trophies.
"Done searching?"
"All done. But something's strange—we didn't find the source energy block this time."
"What?! None?!" Cold sweat broke across the man's forehead in an instant.
The other man was equally anxious, stammering under his breath, "Y-yeah, can't find it anywhere… Could it have just been completely drained?"
"It's not entirely impossible… but how could it be such a coincidence?!" The final words carried a desperate, plaintive sob of sheer frustration.
The man paused to think, then snapped his head toward Han Qingyu and barked, "Kid, did you see a dull golden metal piece? About this big… or maybe smaller, tiny… might not be a neat block, just a lump."
*Stay calm. Stay calm. Keep your head, just like catching snakes.* Han Qingyu stood there like a prisoner, unable to stop himself from trembling even as he repeated the words in his mind.
The Han family had passed down the craft of snake-catching through the generations. Han Qingyu had known how to do it once, picking it up in his early teens, though his mother had forbidden both father and son from touching it ever again after his grandfather passed away.
Now, cornered at a life-and-death crossroads, Han Qingyu finally dredged up that long-dormant feeling.
Everything that had just unfolded, everything happening before his eyes right now, was beyond his comprehension—beyond his ability even to process. But one thing was crystal clear: he had to stay calm.
This was plainly no ordinary occurrence. It could be an earth-shattering secret, classified military intelligence, an underground war between nations… Whatever it was, it was not something he was ever supposed to witness.
He had seen too much. He knew too much.
Pale-faced, Han Qingyu put on a dazed look and shook his head vigorously.
That thing was valuable.
He had seen it.
He hadn't taken it.
Even so, he could not tell the truth now. Han Qingyu had clearly watched them sweep that ditch with their instruments several times over.
If they hadn't found it, admitting he had seen it would leave him unable to explain where it went.
Under these circumstances, the slightest mistake or misunderstanding could prove fatal.
"Oh?" The man gave him a cold look, then gestured to the person beside him. "Search him."
"Hardly likely, is it?" the man muttered, essentially scoffing at the idea that a village kid would have the nerve to pocket their equipment. Still, he walked over and patted Han Qingyu down thoroughly several times before reporting in disappointment, "Nothing."
"…Then it really must have run completely dry."
"Probably. Either way, search a few more times."
"Yes… What about this kid? How do we handle him?"
The discussion among the apparent leaders came to an end. Aside from those returning to the search, over a dozen pairs of eyes settled back onto Han Qingyu.
Among them was Captain Lao, who had just come around, the blood at the corners of his mouth not yet wiped away.
The man had clearly passed out earlier, yet he had revived this quickly, and his injuries appeared nowhere near as dire as Han Qingyu had assumed.
The wounded Captain Lao sat with his back against a tall pine tree, clutching his chest. He spat a mouthful of bloody phlegm, then raised his head to look at Han Qingyu. With apparent effort, he said, "You. Come here."
His voice was low and gravelly.
Han Qingyu had no choice but to walk over.
"You were trying to save me earlier, weren't you? Thanks. I'm Lao Jian, the head of this outfit." Lao Jian, looking to be around thirty-seven or thirty-eight, spoke in a mild tone this time.
Yet before Han Qingyu could answer, he went on with an air of regret, "Still, I'm sorry…"
Sweeping his gaze around the clearing, Lao Jian concluded, "What you just saw is the greatest secret in the world today—the highest classified intelligence concerning the peace and survival of human society.
"Personally, I'm sorry, but there is no other way," he finished.
As Lao Jian spoke, Han Qingyu noticed someone behind him grin savagely, raising a hand to draw a thumb across his throat.
Then Lao Jian struggled to his feet, took a blade handed to him by a subordinate, and leveled the tip at Han Qingyu's throat.
"I won't say a word," Han Qingyu said.
Lao Jian's face remained impassive. "Useless."
One second, two seconds, three… five seconds, ten seconds.
With the blade before his eyes, Han Qingyu held Lao Jian's gaze in silence. During that stretch, he had the sense that the man was waiting for his reaction—waiting for him to say or do something.
So he said nothing and did nothing for now. Without a direction or a read on the situation, taking the initiative risked making a fatal mistake.
Lao Jian seemed slightly surprised and curious. "You aren't going to cry? Or maybe try kneeling and begging me like they do on television?"
"…Will it work?" Han Qingyu asked earnestly. "If it works, I'll beg."
Lao Jian froze, his gaze shifting as he looked at the boy. "No."
"Right. I was trying to figure out another way to convince you… but nothing came to mind right away."
A few onlookers cracked faint smiles at that; it sounded almost like a quip, yet he had spoken with utter sincerity.
Lao Jian visibly reined in his expression. Little did he know that the seemingly honest, timid village boy before him was testing his temperament.
The most critical part of handling a snake was keeping it calm; a true master could handle one with effortless ease. As for dealing with a person, the key was naturally figuring out their temper and character, then flowing with it.
Furthermore, Han Qingyu remembered that when the subordinate brought him up, he had asked: *What about this kid? How do we handle him?*
If silencing him were truly the only option left, he wouldn't have asked that question.
Therefore, another possibility existed.
What he needed to do now was create an opening to win that other possibility from Lao Jian. And compared to groveling like a pitiful coward, nudging the man to offer it willingly was far safer.
At any rate, Lao Jian held no malice toward him, nor an absolute desire to kill. That was the premise and foundation for Han Qingyu's attempt.
"The blade is at your throat, and you're still thinking?" After a brief silence, Lao Jian spoke again.
"Before the blade falls, I want to try everything I can. It's just a pity I haven't come up with a way yet," Han Qingyu answered honestly.
"…" The strength suddenly drained from Lao Jian's arm, and the hand holding the weapon dropped. The blade seemed exceedingly heavy. A weary smile crossed Lao Jian's haggard face, and he nodded. "Not bad. Got some spine… *cough, cough, cough, cough…*"
He doubled over in a fit of painful coughing, then looked up. "In that case, I'll give you another choice."
"…" It had come.
Han Qingyu nodded and looked at Lao Jian, his eyes asking, waiting, hoping.
"Enlist," Lao Jian said simply.
Enlist?!
Han Qingyu froze on the spot, a surge of absurd, inexplicable excitement flashing through him. *Worn out iron shoes searching high and low, only to find… bullcrap.* Where hills and streams double back, seeming to leave no way forward, amidst dark willows and blossoming… funeral wreaths lay right before his eyes.
He quickly realized the truth: the soldier Lao Jian spoke of was almost certainly not what he imagined, nor what ordinary people of this era considered a soldier.
He glanced at the corpses, the wounded, and the weapons on the ground, then thought about their enemies… Moreover, the clothes these people wore were not standard military uniforms.
"What… kind of soldier?" Suppressing the disappointment in his chest, Han Qingyu ventured carefully.
"You'll know when you get there… Never mind, you'll find out sooner or later anyway. A soldier like us."
*A soldier like us, battling mysterious and formidable enemies; a soldier like us, prone to death and maiming at any moment; a soldier like us, burdened with secrets, with no return in sight…*
Lao Jian did not go into detail. He trailed off, straightened his chest, and smiled faintly, his self-mocking tone laced with a touch of desolation and pride.
"Then… how long do I have to serve?" Han Qingyu asked with stubborn persistence, like an oblivious fool who still hadn't grasped the situation.
Faint smiles surfaced on the faces of the group around them, but before the smiles could fully form, several men fell silent, their expressions dimming.
Lao Jian seemed stirred by a ripple of emotion as well. He looked at Han Qingyu, thought seriously for a moment, and said in a frank yet slightly subdued voice, "Maybe three to five years. Maybe ten-plus… Maybe a lifetime."
With that, he turned away, staring silently at the corpses of his comrades on the ground nearby. When he turned back, the light in his eyes had dimmed completely, heavy with heartache and grief.
This was not an explosive sorrow; it was lingering, endless, something they had been forced to grow accustomed to. Perhaps it had once existed only during long, brutal wartime eras, where comrades sharing a trench from dawn to dusk fell without warning, no one knowing whose turn was next.
Han Qingyu waited a beat, then pressed on, "Will I still be able to go home and see my parents?"
Deep earnestness filled his eyes as he asked.
Lao Jian nodded. "After a certain period, once you've earned full trust and the chance for leave arises, yes."
"…All right."
That was the only decent answer so far. Han Qingyu murmured his agreement and continued pondering.
"Are you going to ask about getting married and having kids next?" Breaking the somber atmosphere, Lao Jian spoke up with a teasing, playful smirk.
The men around him let out a few dry chuckles.
Han Qingyu felt a twinge of awkwardness; he had actually forgotten about that.
"You'll have plenty of time to ask about that later. That's enough for now. Well…" Pausing briefly, Lao Jian shifted his tone, looking up once more into Han Qingyu's eyes. "Otherwise, my only choice really is to silence you."
"…" Han Qingyu had originally wanted to push a little further.
Yet Lao Jian had spoken first. This time, his voice carried no threat—only helplessness and conflict, perhaps even a trace of concern, or reluctance.
Even so, Han Qingyu could tell: this time, it was almost certainly real.
If he insisted on refusing or tried to run, they might truly have no choice but to kill him.
And judging from the casualties among their comrades in that battle, they had long since grown accustomed to death. They were used to facing death, and used to dealing it.
So this other choice was, in truth, no choice at all.
Chapter 3