Translator: AnubisTL
The other reason was that after the Ten Thousand Races Arena ended, race players who left the arena would earn merit points for killing Federal Citizens. These merit points could then be used to purchase items from the human race merit points shop.
After the Ten Thousand Races Arena ended, many things disappeared—the events, the mechanical voice—but the system of earning merit points by killing alien race players remained. This was a residual instinct of the World Origin Consciousness.
The Federal Citizens were now classified as alien race players.
Under these circumstances, an irreconcilable conflict arose between the race players and the Federal Citizens—at least, from the race players' perspective.
The galactic federation, however, saw no conflict at all, just as humans don't perceive an irreconcilable conflict between themselves and the pigs they raise for slaughter.
And so, as Chen Jiang was rushing to his nth battlefield, a notification suddenly sounded in his ear:
[You have supported one hundred battlefields, reaching the support limit. You cannot provide further assistance.]
["In three seconds, you will be forcibly removed from the battlefield."]
["Please wait patiently outside the battlefield for the conclusion of this global event."]
Soon, a white circle of light flashed.
Chen Jiang and his group reappeared beneath the world tree. His eyes, previously glazed over from the relentless slaughter, gradually regained their clarity. Had he reached the support limit already?
This thing actually has a limit? What a cheapskate!
"Phew!"
He exhaled softly, stretched his slightly stiff body, and glanced at his Blood War Points balance.
[49,820,000]
A staggering sum.
The Blood War Shop remained closed. It would only open for twelve hours after the global event concluded, making shopping impossible for now.
This amount was enough to purchase at least several more three-star rule items.
Three-star rule items were always beneficial to have in abundance. Theoretically, possessing a million such items would grant power rivaling that of a primordial god.
The power of three-star rule items varied drastically between the Ten Thousand Races Arena and the galactic federation.
Take the global speaker, for example.
While rare in the Ten Thousand Races Arena, it wasn't impossible to obtain. Its effect allowed the user to broadcast messages to all race players within the arena. However, if this item were taken outside the arena and used within the galactic federation, its value would skyrocket.
A single item capable of broadcasting messages to every Federal Citizen in the galactic federation would command a price nearly double its original value.
This was all he could do. The 49.82 million Blood War Points he had earned represented, in a sense, the lives of nearly 50 million human players he had saved.
If the human race were to survive and pass down its history, this moment would undoubtedly be recorded in its annals.
Perhaps in alien histories, countless derogatory terms would be used to describe him: monster, madman, bloodthirsty, inhuman, demon, and more.
But in human history, Chen Jiang would be an irreplaceable figure—the one who prevented the human race's legacy from being severed.
In the obscure corners of history, even the greatest heroes are often portrayed as inhuman monsters.
And who could deny that Chen Jiang was a hero?
To be a loyal minister, one must be more cunning than the treacherous officials.
To become a hero, one must be more bloodthirsty than the enemy.
This is what they call—
To know treachery, understand treachery, and embrace treachery, only then can one be truly loyal.
To know killing, relish killing, and crave killing, only then can one become a true hero.
If the enemy slaughters a million, and the world trembles in fear, then we shall slaughter ten million, a hundred million, a billion. We shall exterminate every alien race, and then we shall be the sole great heroes of this world.
Huff!
Chen Jiang stretched his limbs, stood his ground, and gazed into the distance, leaning on his cane. There was nothing left to do but wait—wait for this global event to finally end.
As for the human players on other battlefields, he could only do so much. War is always cruel, and he couldn't protect every human player. Ultimately, they would have to endure many hardships on their own.
History is made by countless individuals, not by a single person. What's written by one person isn't history, it's autobiography.
"Kill! Kill! Kill!"
On a blood-soaked battlefield, a bare-chested man, his body stained crimson, roared fiercely as he swung his blade toward the alien race players' fortifications. He stood his ground with difficulty, swaying slightly as he bellowed his orders.
"Charge! Hurry! Just one more push! Destroy these bastards' buildings!"
They were a squad of a thousand, their sole objective to demolish the alien race players' structure before them. This building served only one purpose: after charging for an hour, it would launch a devastating missile into the enemy's camp.
Soil resource requirement: 200,000.
The alien race players were goblins, whose soil excavation speed far surpassed the humans'. The goblins' construction rate dwarfed the humans' efforts.
Especially this charge cannon turret. If it completed its charge, the human players would face utter defeat!
The war had raged for hours, reaching a fever pitch!
On such a massive battlefield, chaos reigned. It wasn't that no orders were being issued, but that the soldiers, their eyes bloodshot and their minds clouded by the carnage, simply couldn't hear them amidst the din.
Only when the notification appeared—"Enemy successfully constructed charge cannon turret"—did the human players regain some clarity. They immediately dispatched a squad of nearly a thousand soldiers to flank the enemy and destroy the structure.
However, the enemy had already fortified the area around the turret. The moment the human squad infiltrated, they were met with a devastating barrage.
"Kill them all!"
The bare-chested man, his body drenched in blood and his sword dripping crimson, glared at the turret just a few dozen steps away. He staggered forward, bellowing, "Are you all fucking cowards?!"
When no one charged forward, he painfully twisted his head to look behind him. He saw only a field of corpses—not a single human player remained standing.
The thousand-strong squad had been reduced to just him.
"A bunch of worthless trash!"
The man couldn't help but curse angrily. He glared at the machine gun fortresses firing at him again, took a deep breath, and leaped into the air with a ferocious roar.
"I wield a blade to slay all demons and monsters!"
"Die, you bastards!"
In the next instant—
A blinding white light erupted from his greatsword, hurtling straight toward the towering charge cannon turret dozens of paces away!
The blade's strike was impossibly fast, moving at a speed the naked eye couldn't track. It struck the charge cannon turret in the blink of an eye!
His bloodshot eyes remained fixed on the turret, veins bulging and twitching around his sockets. Finally, as the blade's strike landed, a mechanical voice echoed across the battlefield:
[Human player has successfully destroyed the goblin race's charge cannon turret.]
"I did it," he muttered, a flicker of triumph in his eyes. But even as he spoke, a hail of bullets slammed into his body, tearing through his abdomen and sending him flying backward.
His consciousness faded like receding tides, rapidly dissolving into nothingness.
As his consciousness slowly faded, Su Tian, his expression vacant, unconsciously curled his lips into a faint smile and murmured, "I'm so damn cool."
I wield a sword to slay all demons in this world.
This line, which he had read in a fantasy novel on Blue Star, resonated deeply with him. He always felt his innate ability perfectly matched its heroic spirit—the image of a lone warrior standing against a thousand foes, a vision that made him tremble with excitement every time he recalled it.
Yet he had never dared to speak these words aloud.
The reason was simple: they were too cringeworthy, too embarrassing. He knew the other human players would mock him relentlessly. But now, on the verge of death, what did it matter? Let them laugh; he wouldn't be around to hear it anyway.
This was the power of his innate ability. The greatsword was his symbiotic item, bound to his very being. He could only use this technique three times, and this was his final chance.
Originally, he had planned to save it for destroying the charge cannon turret, using it to cover the retreat and ensure everyone's safe escape.
If he had used this move to flee, he could have shattered the bullet chains completely and escaped unscathed.
But if he fled, hundreds of thousands of humans here would die.
In the final moment before his consciousness faded, Su Tian, suspended in mid-air, suddenly seemed to experience a lasting glimmer. He gazed up at the blood-red clouds overhead, a fleeting thought flashing through his mind: I suddenly want some dumplings.
Then his body plummeted heavily to the ground.
A barrage of dense gunfire immediately followed, shattering his corpse into bloody fragments that exploded into a crimson mist.
He, Su Tian, had once stood atop the global rankings, claiming the number one spot.
Yet his name remained unremembered, for he had only occupied that position for a few fleeting seconds.
Like a fleeting ephemera, he had existed briefly before vanishing.
Scenes like this played out endlessly across the battlefield. The human race was a complex species. Ever since humans first developed self-awareness, philosophers had sought to define them using countless terms, yet no single word—or even half-accurate phrase—could ever truly capture their essence.
Betrayal and loyalty coexisted, peace and slaughter intertwined, darkness and light intertwined.
The more I loathed this race, the more I loved it.
Such events unfolded endlessly across countless battlefields. Yet the names of these individuals were destined to remain unrecorded in the annals of human history, their very existence unknown to posterity.
On history's blank pages, in those forgotten spaces, lay a history forged by the blood of countless nameless heroes.
"Do you think it's possible," Scar Dog mused, sitting on a rock, his brow furrowed in thought, "that the World Origin Consciousness of Blue Star favored us, allowing fellow race players to support each other during this global event? And then, when the World Origin Consciousness of other races realized things were going awry, they united to forcibly impose a limit on support instances—a hundred times?"
"I don't know," Li Hao replied, shaking his head. "No one can know for sure what's really happening. But it's certainly a possibility."
Scar Dog sighed softly, shook his head, and fell silent. He lay back on the rock, propping his hands behind his head, gazing up at the dense canopy above, his expression distant, lost in thought.
The global event was far from over.
They had merely been forcibly withdrawn ahead of time.
Now, they had to wait—wait for this global event to finally end.
This global event was likely the deadliest in history. At the very least, half of all alien race players would be permanently buried within it.
By now, dusk was approaching, and the sun was gradually sinking below the horizon.
Meanwhile, in Ash City on Orange Red Star, a grand evening party was unfolding smoothly aboard a massive yacht cruising along the river outside the city.
Wealthy young ladies in elegant evening gowns and young masters in formal suits clinked glasses and exchanged toasts. Some stood at the yacht's railings, laughing and chatting, while others gathered in the luxurious cabins, their voices rising in boisterous laughter.
Still others lingered in the engine room, whispering excitedly.
Cameras clicked incessantly as guests posed with exquisite desserts, casually positioning expensive wines in the corners of their photos, ready to post them on social media.
They were showcasing their high-quality, refined lifestyle.
White-tuxedoed waiters with red bow ties weaved through the crowd, carrying trays laden with drinks and desserts.
"See that?" Hu Biao leaned against the yacht's railing, calmly removing his white gloves and tucking them into his pocket. He gazed at the scene before him and murmured, "This is what they call 'peaceful times.' They're enjoying peaceful times while we're carrying the weight of the world."
"It's not fair."
"That's why we need to make this unfairness fair."
Just then—
A young master in an outrageously expensive suit strolled past Hu Biao and casually ordered, "You, go to the yacht's rear storage compartment and fetch ten more cigars. And... hmm?"
Mid-sentence, the young master's eyes landed on Hu Biao's ungloved hands. His brow furrowed in anger as he snapped, "Where are your gloves?"
"If you dare touch my prized cigars with those filthy hands, I'll shove your head up your ass."
"My apologies," Hu Biao said calmly, retrieving a fresh pair of black gloves from his coat. "The previous pair wasn't sweat-resistant and left fingerprints easily. This pair will work much better."
Before the young master could react, Hu Biao drew a rifle from his coat, grabbed the young man by the collar, and pressed the muzzle against his abdomen. He squeezed the trigger.
Brrrrt!
The ear-splitting gunfire shattered the night's tranquility, shattering the peaceful atmosphere on the yacht.
Hu Biao casually tossed the mangled corpse aside and pulled a Magic Cube-sized device from his coat, tossing it onto the deck. He then aimed the rifle at the now-screaming young masters and ladies, a grim smile spreading across his face as he rasped, "Ladies and gentlemen, this is the special event for tonight's party—a little game."
"The rules are simple."
"Anyone who speaks... dies."
(End of the Chapter)
Translator's Corner
🧧A massive discount for monthly and yearly memberships is now live on the site, visit now to avail it before it expires.
🔓 𝔴𝔴𝔴.𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔡𝔢𝔯𝔱𝔩.𝔠𝔬𝔪 — 13 Series (7 Ongoing) | 14+ New Chapters Daily | 6,100+ FREE