My memories returned like a cold blade pressed against my neck, paralyzing my body. It was as if all my strength had been drained, and for a moment, I thought this was my final punishment, that I had died and gone straight to hell.
I remembered the words of my comrades around the campfire on the night we dined on a freshly hunted boar. "Listen, Xun," they said, "if you stare at hell long enough, at some point, it will mold itself into your image."
At the time, I thought the old men were just rambling, but as the years went by, I realized how true those words were.
This became clear on the night we received orders to invade a village due to some report made to our superiors. Our initial mission was to infiltrate and eliminate any threat hiding there. But then, the orders changed: our new mission was to kill everyone. I protested—it made no sense to massacre civilians. I thought to myself, "They won't go along with this. We're soldiers, but we're still human, right?"
Before I could finish processing my thoughts, the village had already been taken. The villagers didn't stand a chance. It was a one-sided massacre. Adults, elders, even children… all brutally slaughtered. When it was over, I looked into my comrades' eyes and saw that they had already become the demons they often spoke of. I couldn't sleep that night; guilt consumed me completely.
They say that war hardens even the purest heart, that even a saint, after seeing enough blood, learns to wield his blade like a demon. And now, as my comrades had said, hell began to mold my very soul.
It didn't take long for me to become just like them. Every time I completed a mission, I tried to hide behind the false belief that it wasn't my fault, that I was just following orders. I convinced myself that, as a soldier, it was my duty to follow my superiors' orders, that the responsibility lay with them, not me.
But the truth is, I was just weak. A slave. A dog of the state that always obeyed, even knowing it was wrong. I blamed others to justify my own actions.
Listen closely: they say this war is for our good, that everything they do is to protect us. They say it's our duty, as soldiers, to follow, obey, and submit. But deep down, who are "they"? What are these laws that force us to risk our lives while they enjoy endless luxury? They give us rules and impose a life we never chose, an existence we were forced to accept.
Over time, you begin to serve without question, becoming nothing more than a weapon in the hands of the state, carrying out the orders of men who have never seen the horror of war up close. They tell us the enemies are monsters, that killing them is our duty. But after a while, I realized they weren't monsters. They were people, just like anyone else, trapped in a system that used them and, in the end, just discarded them, while our superiors collected medals.
How ironic. To them, we're tools. To us, they're untouchable shadows, distant, above any responsibility. While we shed blood, they collect honors.
It's a shame that I can only reflect on this now...
As my memories fully return, I open my eyes with difficulty. A beam of light pierces the room through a gap in the straw, illuminating my body. The pungent smell of manure invades my nostrils, and as I look around, I realize I'm in a crude pigsty, simple and weathered by time.
My head throbs with pain, bombarded by memories that aren't mine. Images and sensations of a young slave with the same name as mine flood my mind like a relentless torrent, a tsunami that fills every corner of my thoughts. His memories blend with mine, indistinguishable, fusing who I was and who he is into an unbearable confusion.
As the throbbing pain fades, my mind clears, and the memories finally settle like pieces of a large puzzle. Now I understand everything: I died in that war as a soldier, and, for some reason, I was reborn in this body.
My name remains the same—Xun Deyou—but the world around me is completely different. This is a world of cultivation, where only the strongest rule and powerful families and clans make the laws. Here, the fate of the weak is marked by fear; those who do not cultivate are nothing more than slaves, disposable property, insignificant lives at the mercy of the immortals who control everything. In this world, even one's surname belongs to the immortals, as if they were symbols of power.
The body I now have is that of a slave, cruelly killed for something he never chose to possess: a beauty that transcends the ordinary, one that can only be described as divine. His long, black hair falls in heavy, silky locks, contrasting with the paleness of his skin, almost as if it were made of liquid obsidian. His eyes… no, now, my eyes… are as black as a starless sky, enigmatic, as if they held secrets. His skin, even after days and nights of filthy and degrading work, remains as pure as the most precious jade. No matter how hard he worked in the pigsty, his beauty was unrivaled and unsettling to those around him.
Of course, this beauty is like a curse in this world. Cultivators of the family he served, disturbed by his divine appearance that seemed to mock their mediocrity, beat him to death.
A bitter laugh escapes my lips. "It seems that no matter how many lives I have, I'm still a slave," I murmur to myself, letting sarcasm tint my words. "In my past life, at least they pretended to care. Here, not even that…"
The irony is cruel. I traded one war for another, one forced servitude for an even harsher one. Here, I am an irrelevant piece, a mere tool in a world where absolute power defines the value of each life. In this place, even the right to exist belongs to those who cultivate, those who walk toward immortality.
I sigh, gazing at the flimsy ceiling of the pigsty that now serves as my shelter. The memories of the original Xun Deyou bring flashes of his routine: days of relentless labor, enduring constant humiliation and silently observing the cultivators around him, whose power could shatter mountains.