Chapter Fifty-Seven

Scenes like this occur frequently in the five villages. As more and more players in Youzhou began to stray from the main storyline, those at the level of the Meteorite Sect’s leader gradually sensed a growing threat. It was as if a sharp sword hung over their heads, swaying restlessly, its fall unpredictable, and most terrifyingly, the blade seemed to be growing larger.

The Sparrow Form Sect, a sect near the Meteorite Sect that specialized in archery, was weaker than the Meteorite Sect. After witnessing the annihilation of the Meteorite Sect, they realized for the first time that the archery skills they had always regarded as mere displays of prowess had become deadly weapons in the hands of others. They claimed that though they could see the changing times and held the key in their hands, when it came to actual use, they found the key was of the wrong type. They could not match the players’ unity, who, when mobilized, moved as a single swarm. Yet, facing those who had mastered the sixteen-word mantra of guerrilla warfare, added cavalry, a military system, and ever-advancing technology and population, it was like a horde of primitives facing a battalion of tanks—utter despair.

Even the spies and infiltrators they sent returned fewer and fewer reports, and those reports grew ever more perilous. Though the Black Tiger Stronghold continued to manage its own territory without encroaching on theirs, the presence of a fierce tiger nearby brought no peace. So the Sparrow Form Sect decided to unite with neighboring sects to strike down this monstrous anomaly, the Black Tiger Stronghold.

When the Sparrow Form Sect’s leader set their plan into motion, Cheng Yuan of the Black Tiger Stronghold remained unaware. To him, these people who couldn’t even manage their own territory were nothing but decrepit bones in a grave; beyond their land, there was nothing to gain. What concerned Cheng Yuan now was another game: "Artifact Continent," or the foreign version, "Arms and Weapons."

Cheng Yuan had been happily recruiting nomads beyond Youzhou, and though fewer nomads remained to be captured, this did not trouble him—his goals were nearly met. But lately, some pale-skinned people had arrived from beyond the desert, speaking awkward Chinese and muttering about crossing borders or crusading eastward.

A strange sense of fate lingered in the air. Cheng Yuan continued to round up nomads, even venturing into neighboring Yongzhou to do so. This made the Yongzhou players uneasy, especially as they watched cavalry charging across the borders, snatching people away. The once lively, charismatic nomadic youths vanished one by one, and even began to show fear and anger towards them. A sense of unfamiliarity crept in.

A month passed. Cheng Yuan was eating hotpot and singing when suddenly, a player bowed before him and shouted, "Report, Chief! The five surrounding sects, led by the Black Fire Cult, are attacking our village. Our garrison is fighting desperately to resist!" Cheng Yuan slammed his bowl onto the table, exclaiming, "Damn it! These decrepit bones—have they grown bold enough to attack my village?"

A player whispered, "Maybe it’s because you haven’t struck them for a while—they think you’re easy to bully?" Cheng Yuan understood at once. "Ah, so that’s it. No wonder—they don’t realize the difference in strength." The player added, "But if the village falls and they invade, all our months of effort will be wasted." Cheng Yuan waved his hand. "Transmit my orders—assemble the entire army. It’s time to sweep the house clean." The player asked, "What if the village is breached?" Cheng Yuan, sweeping the food back into his bowl with chopsticks—grain was precious now, nothing could be wasted—replied quietly, "First, recall everyone. After this, such things shouldn’t happen again."

As the player left, soon black smoke rose from the Black Tiger Stronghold, spreading outwards like dominoes, pillar after pillar shooting skyward, stretching beyond Cheng Yuan’s line of sight.

Beacon fires signaled the warning. Though primitive, before telephones, this technology was simple and effective. Soon, the arrival of a new phenomenon—war—loomed on the horizon. In the desert, armored cavalry watched the rising smoke. Some flicked the blood from their curved blades, others released their bowstrings. All, like the tide, converged on the Black Tiger Stronghold.

Within a day, those near Youzhou’s border heard the rumbling thunder—a vast army trampling the earth. The true reaper of this world had been born.

Though Cheng Yuan had only five villages in Youzhou, his external expansion, absorbing nomadic powers, had already swallowed most of the southern desert. His raids even reached neighboring Yongzhou, and further afield, the northern part of Yizhou bordered the territory of "Divine Artifacts." With most of the southern desert, and the allegiance of the majority of Youzhou’s players, Cheng Yuan’s strength was far beyond the imagination of Youzhou’s NPCs.

He had a thousand heavy cavalry, clad in full armor, wielding five-meter lances, their mounts similarly armored, each man and beast nearly half a ton. When these steel behemoths charged, even martial arts masters, armed with spiritual weapons, could not withstand them head-on, especially in such numbers.

Many opted for the more flexible and safer mounted archers, carrying bows and curved swords. Cavalry was a popular choice—most who chose Youzhou did so for the chance to ride. Yet with so many players and limited horses, some became infantry.

These horse-less players mostly stayed in the village, working in administrative or idle roles, often leaving their armor and weapons at home. The massive army demanded a correspondingly powerful military industry. Indeed, production-focused players like Wei Chengguang had already developed the Bessemer process for steelmaking. They were even trying to build a giant furnace to leap ahead into the blast furnace era, but with too few miners, progress was slow.

When invasion came from the surrounding sects, those who usually taught, built infrastructure, or farmed donned their armor and rushed to the front lines.

Zhao Ping, his armor stained red with blood, staggered into the empty classroom, gut slashed deep enough to expose bone, his intestines severed—he had no hope of survival. Smiling weakly at the deserted classroom, he murmured, "Wonderful, they’re all safe."

He picked up a piece of chalk and wrote five words on the blackboard: "Farewell, my students." In the corner, he signed his name. Unable to hold himself up any longer, Zhao Ping slumped into a chair, blood streaming down his leg onto the floor.

Memories flooded his mind—his time at this podium. "Being a teacher is truly wonderful." In reality, he could never be a teacher; he was just a corporate drone, endlessly laboring under his boss’s orders. Yet in the game, facing a crowd of NPCs, he had somehow crafted lesson plans—it was incredible. In a haze, he recalled an essay from elementary school, "I Want to Be a Teacher." The blood-red chalk slipped from his hand, and Zhao Ping bowed his head at the podium.