Chapter 5

Time passed as the entire village gathered at the center, in front of the village chief's house.

Every household carried several bags—likely filled with food, clothes, and whatever little money they had left.

Chen Ping watched the scene with mild boredom. He had already tried contacting the villagers, but it seemed like he was invisible and intangible to them—just a spectator watching a movie.

After a while, as the last of the people arrived, the door of the village chief's house finally opened. An old man, seemingly in his sixties, stepped out. Behind him followed two men and a woman, probably his family.

The village chief addressed the crowd with a few comforting words, trying his best not to further agitate the already anxious and exhausted people.

Then, without much delay, the group set off on their journey toward their only hope—Qinghe City.

In Chen Ping's vision, the scene fast-forwarded.

At first, the journey was manageable. The villagers walked for days, tired but still moving forward with determination. But as they entered the main road leading to Qinghe City, the entire world seemed to change.

The path ahead, once rough and untidy, was now unnervingly clean. Too clean.

There wasn't a single patch of overgrown grass, nor a stray leaf left untouched. Even the tree barks along the roadside bore gnaw marks—evidence of desperate people who had resorted to eating whatever they could find.

The cruel signs of starvation were everywhere.

But this was just the beginning. The farther they went, the more unsettling the surroundings became. Bones and dried blood littered the path, yet there were no bodies in sight.

And that was the most terrifying sign of all.

No bodies meant that something—or someone—had taken them. The villagers weren't naïve; they knew what this suggested. Somewhere along this road, people had resorted to the most desperate and unthinkable act—cannibalism.

A silent tension gripped the group. Instinctively, they huddled closer together, seeking what little comfort and security they could find in numbers.

As their journey continued, they started encountering other travelers.

Most moved in large groups, avoiding unnecessary interactions and keeping their eyes fixed on the road ahead. Some cast greedy glances toward the villagers, but upon assessing their size, quickly averted their gaze and moved on.

As the days passed, conditions worsened. It became common to see the old and weak abandoned by their groups—left behind to conserve food and increase the pace.

Even children were sometimes discarded.

The villagers could do nothing. Helping meant sharing what little they had, risking their own survival. So, despite the unease in their hearts, they walked past, eyes forward, ignoring the desperate cries behind them.

Only the elderly among them looked particularly shaken. They knew the brutal reality—if things got worse, they might be the next ones left behind.

Chen Ping observed all of this with an eerily calm expression. He had lived alone for years, witnessing the darker side of human nature. This scene before him? It was just another cruel example of it.

The journey pressed on, and for a while, it seemed like they would make it without incident.

But fate had other plans.

That night, they rested as usual. But when they resumed walking the next morning, disaster struck.

From the surrounding area, a group of people emerged.

There were around fifteen to sixteen of them, all armed with steel swords. They wore ragged black tunics, patched with fur and crude leather armor. Some had cloth wrapped around their heads, covering most of their faces, while others displayed wild, unkempt hair.

But the man leading them stood out the most.

He was middle-aged, his face marked by a deep, ferocious scar that ran across his left eye—rendering it blind. His one good eye gleamed with malice as he stepped forward and bellowed:

"Listen up! This road belongs to Black Stone Village! Leave half of everything you have, and you can pass!"

Tension filled the air.

Chen Ping exhaled softly, knowing that things were about to take a turn for the worse.

The villagers had encountered bandits.

The villagers panicked.

If they handed over half of everything, their journey to Qinghe City would become even more dangerous. Would they even make it?

"Ahem."

A light cough echoed through the tense silence. The villagers quieted and instinctively parted, making way for the village chief.

Steadying his breath, the old man stepped forward. He faced the bandit leader with a humble posture, his voice calm yet pleading.

"Sir bandit, please have mercy on us. We are just ordinary folk and have little to offer."

"Even if you take what we have, it wouldn't be worth much to you. We—"

"Shut up, old man!" The bandit leader sneered, cutting him off. "I didn't ask for your opinion. I said half, so hand over half. Got it?"

The village chief exhaled slowly, trying to suppress his rising anxiety. He knew that reasoning with bandits was a gamble, but he had no choice.

"Sir, we are willing to give what we can," he said, bowing slightly. "But please, spare our food. We have only a little left. Without it, we may not survive the journey to Qinghe City."

The bandit leader chuckled darkly.

"Hah! And why would I care?" he mocked. "What does your suffering have to do with me? If I had a kind heart, do you think I'd be standing here as a bandit?"

His lips curled into a wicked grin as he tapped his sword against his palm.

"But you know, old man, you actually have a point."

The bandit leader let out a dramatic sigh, as if deep in thought. "Taking half your food would make things tough for you lot. With so little left, you'd probably starve to death long before reaching Qinghe City. So—"

He paused for a moment, letting the silence stretch, his grin widening as unease settled over the villagers.

"Why not make it simpler?" His voice turned mocking. "Hand over everything—your food, your valuables, all of it. That way, you won't have to struggle anymore… and you'll die much faster."

"You, you—" The village chief's face turned red with anger, but before he could say another word, he was interrupted again.

"What 'you, you'? Just spit it out—are you handing everything over peacefully, or—"

As the bandit leader spoke, the other bandits grinned and drew their sabers, swords, or whatever weapons they had, their eyes gleaming with malice.