71: Chapter 71 is mine; I'm late.

The elderly. Women. Children. Unarmed, completely defenseless elderly, women, and children.

Those three hundred people who rushed back from Flower City charged into the midst of the corpses.

They were looking for their loved ones.

They wove through, searched, and identified among those faceless, scarred corpses. Then—one scream after another exploded from different directions.

"Dad—!!"

A man in his thirties threw himself beside the corpse of an old man.

The old man's chest had a deep, horizontal slash, almost splitting the entire chest cavity open. His eyes were still open. He died with his eyes wide open, unable to rest in peace.

The man used trembling hands to close the old man's eyes. He tried once, it didn't close. He tried again, it still wouldn't close!

He collapsed.

He pulled the old man's head into his arms, pressing his forehead tightly against that cold face, and wailed.

"Dad! Get up and look at me! Your son is back!! Your son has come to take you home!!"

"Dad—open your eyes and look—it's your son—your son is back—!!"

Not far away.

A young man in his early twenties lay prone beside two corpses lying side by side, his hands gripping the wrists of an old woman with white hair, crying so hard he couldn't catch his breath.

"Grandpa! Grandma! Your grandson is unfilial! Grand—son—is—un—fil—ial—!!"

Beside the old woman lay an old man.

The two of them were holding hands tightly. So tightly that even after death had stiffened their bodies, they hadn't let go.

The old man's other hand was still clutching a wooden stick. An ordinary, withered branch. Perhaps that was his only "weapon" while he was alive.

"My mother! Where is my mother—Mom!!"

"Wife! Where are you and the child—where are you—!!"

A man was weaving, running, and searching among the corpses like a madman.

He found them.

His wife lay beside a dirt pit. There were four or five knife wounds on her body. None were fatal. But together, they were enough to make a person slowly bleed to death in extreme pain.

She was still holding a child in her arms. Holding them very tightly. Even though she had been stabbed multiple times, even though the blood had already matted her clothes and the child's clothes together—

The man froze. He stood there straight, like a stone statue. His eyes were wide open, his mouth agape, his entire body motionless.

A long, long time passed. His knees buckled, and his whole body, as if its spine had been ripped out, fell straight to the ground.

"Ah————!!"

A howl that didn't sound like it came from a human erupted from the deepest part of his chest. The sound was like a beast being torn alive. Piercing. Despairing.

Three hundred people. Three hundred people who had traveled thousands of miles back from Flower City.

They came with hope. They came with that promise Zhou Yun had personally made— "I will definitely bring your loved ones back."

With every step of their march, they were silently repeating the same sentence in their hearts—Wait for me a little longer. Wait a little longer. I'm almost there.

But they arrived. And their loved ones were "found." Only—what they found were corpses. Cold, knife-scarred, corpses that could never be woken up again.

Across the entire wilderness, the weeping of three hundred people merged into one. That kind of crying—it wasn't the kind of crying that involves shedding tears, but heart-wrenching wails surging from the depths of their viscera. Interwoven together. Rising and falling.

Zhou Yun felt as if his throat had been grabbed by a hand. He opened his mouth. He wanted to say something. But he couldn't say anything. His vocal cords were trembling. His throat was trembling. His whole body was trembling.

"What on earth... is going on..."

"Why... did it turn out like this?"

His voice had become hoarse without him realizing it.

But no one answered his question. Of course, there was no need to answer. The answer was right before his eyes. The knife wounds on every corpse were answering this question on behalf of the deceased.

City Lord Zhang Hao did not "drive" them out of the city. He marched them out of the city—and then, a massacre.

Zhou Yun took a step. One step. Another step. He walked slowly, so slowly, among those corpses. With every step, he saw a dead face.

There were the elderly. With white hair, dried blood embedded in the wrinkles of their faces.

There were women. Their clothes stained with blood, hands still clutching the children beside them.

There were teenagers. Eyes wide open, mouths slightly agape, as if they hadn't understood even in death—why they had to die.

Then—

Zhou Yun stopped. His footsteps ceased abruptly. He saw a tiny, tiny figure in a patch of withered yellow grass. So small it was almost submerged by the wild grass.

It was a baby. Looking less than four years old. He was curled up in the grass, his whole body shrunk into a tiny, tiny ball. Knees pressed against his chest, two small hands tightly wrapped around his own legs.

He also had a wound on his body. One. Only one. On his back. It wasn't deep, but for a child under four—it was enough.

His skin had already turned that ghastly purple-blue. Not from the cold. It was the color of blood loss. His eyes were tightly closed. A dried tear track hung at the corner of his eye.

That tear track extended from the corner of his eye to his cheek, winding and curving like a tiny, dried-up river. He had died crying.

Zhou Yun couldn't imagine what kind of fear and despair this tiny person, not even four years old, had experienced in the final moments of his life.

But no one came. No one comforted him. No one picked him up.

He was alone. Alone, curled up in the grass, bleeding, crying, waiting for that last bit of warmth to fade from his body, bit by bit.

Then—he just left like that.

Zhou Yun's gaze fell upon his hands. That tiny, purple-blue, stiffened hand—clutching something tightly. A small, black object.

Zhou Yun crouched down. He leaned in to look. He saw it clearly.

It was a small piece of black cake. A piece of moldy black cake, covered in dirt and grass clippings.

Zhou Yun slowly knelt down. The moment his knees touched the ground, there was no sound. He reached out with a trembling hand and gently covered the baby's eyes.

Two fingers, his thumb and index finger, extremely carefully and extremely slowly, smoothed down those tightly closed eyelids that still had dried tear tracks at the corners—as if tucking in a blanket for a sleeping child.

Then, he picked the child up. He hung his head low, his chin almost touching his chest. The tiny body in his arms was cold and stiff; even through his clothes, he could feel that temperature that didn't belong to a living person.

His lips moved. His voice was very soft. So soft it was as if he were only speaking to the child in his arms.

"I arrived late..."

"It is me, I arrived late."