Chapter 38: Clearly, It Was a Summons (With heartfelt thanks to Creamy for the wonderful commentary.)

For half a day, no one paused in their steps, and Wang Keyue paid special attention to the ten members of the Zhou family, noticing that each was capable of enduring hardship. Even the two delicate-looking girls managed to persist without uttering a single complaint of exhaustion or pain.

It made sense; they were children of poverty, accustomed to physical labor from a young age, survivors of famine—by nature, they were strong. The prospects along the way were grim. According to Zhou Fulai, their village was located on the outskirts of Beiping County. Severe drought had left the fields barren, and their sole well had been seized by local officials. Fetching water required payment—two coins per bucket. Eventually, the well dried up completely. Seeking water elsewhere, they found the county office had begun conscripting soldiers, claiming they were to fight the Qianghu tribe. Every household had to provide a male; if none were available, they demanded five hundred coins. The drafts ranged from boys of twelve to men of sixty, sparing neither children nor elders.

"This isn't conscription—it's a death sentence!" Zhou Fulai exclaimed in despair.

Fortunately, Zhou Family Village was remote. Upon hearing the news, the village head quickly convened the community, and they decided to abandon Beiping altogether. To remain meant no water, no food, and endless oppression. Moving into the territory of Great Qin might offer a slim chance of survival.

Yet their hopes proved naive. Once outside their village, they realized the world beyond was strewn with corpses and starving refugees, the dead and dying everywhere. Waves of desperate migrants surged across the land. Worse still, there were those who had lost all sense of humanity, trailing behind them like wild dogs, waiting for a moment's lapse to snatch away a child—thus began their nightmare.

Along the way, Zhou Fulai recounted their ordeals, all the while scrutinizing the terrain and guiding the group. Conditions worsened progressively; countless refugees perished from hunger and thirst. Some, clinging to life, sat roadside with outstretched hands—dry, cracked, and bloodied—pleading for food.

Wang Keyue gazed deeply at those hands, feeling a sudden chill of foreboding. The farther they traveled, the more refugees they encountered in such dire straits. Her group dared not linger, nor could they afford to give charity; instead, they gripped their long knives, ever alert for assaults from those driven mad by hunger.

The Zhou brothers and their kin, themselves once refugees haunted by starvation, understood well the desperation that haunted the masses. They felt both gratitude and pity—thankful to have followed the young master Wang, yet sympathetic toward the suffering refugees. But in the face of death, such sympathy was fleeting; they could not let compassion endanger their own lives.

Wang Keyue's group, armed and formidable, deterred the refugees from outright madness. Instead, the destitute followed at a distance, gradually swelling their numbers. Wang Keyue no longer dared to remain in the carriage; she mounted her great horse, brandishing her blade.

On the road, she activated her Eagle Eye and Strongest Brain abilities. With Eagle Eye, she surveyed the barren earth: the roads were littered with refugees, some sprawled on the ground, others stumbling forward. In the distance, she glimpsed figures running, as if fleeing some monstrous force, but the swirling yellow dust obscured her view.

She withdrew her Eagle Eye, brows furrowed, determined to prepare for whatever lay ahead. She signaled Red One and Orange One to deploy, instructing them to organize a full alert—there was a threat looming ahead.

In a blink, she used Eagle Eye again and finally saw clearly. Behind the refugees, a strange band pursued on horseback. Their hair was braided into dozens of small plaits, they wore animal pelts, and wielded sickle-shaped weapons. Whenever they caught up to a refugee, they raised their curved blades, and with a swift stroke, a head rolled to the ground, blood spurting in terrifying jets. Even Wang Keyue, hardened by the apocalyptic chaos, felt a jolt of horror—and then a surge of furious outrage.

Among the refugees, those with keen eyes and quick wits began to flee. The crowd that had encircled Wang Keyue’s group, upon realizing that foreign invaders were slaughtering behind them, abandoned hunger and thirst and scattered in panic.

"Everyone, pay attention! There are about twenty of them, fewer than us. If you wish to live, grip your long knives tightly!" Wang Keyue commanded.

"Red One, Orange One, take your squads and attack from the flank." There was no time for detailed strategy—a barren wasteland offered neither cover nor concealment. They would have to face the enemy head-on.

The Qianghu tribe surged forward, their eyes bloodshot, roaring with feral rage. As they neared Wang Keyue’s group, an animal instinct brought them to a halt, their horses pawing the earth.