Chapter 7

And the battle unfolded just as Chen Ping had expected.

Noticing the overwhelming power of the bandit leader, the villagers quickly lost their will to fight and began to flee.

"Everyone, run!" the old village chief shouted as he darted in a particular direction, already aware of the hopelessness of fighting against the bandit leader.

Even the bravest villagers, who had been engaged in battle, hesitated before turning to escape.

"Where do you think you're going, huh?" came a voice as the bandit leader charged after them.

Wounded but still standing, the butcher rushed toward his son, grabbing him before dashing toward the jungle.

*Few moments later*

Puchi!

The sickening sound of a blade piercing flesh echoed as a fleeing villager was struck down by a bandit.

Behind them, the bandit leader emerged, his sword dripping with blood, his clothes soaked in crimson.

"How many escaped?" he asked in a displeased tone.

"Leader, most of those who weren't fighting ran away, along with a few who fled after realizing your strength," a bandit reported hesitantly, his head lowered.

"Tui! Just these useless villagers managed to take down so many of you! What the hell are you even good for, huh?" the bandit leader spat, his eyes cold and ruthless. "How am I supposed to trust you lot to deal with the other refugees? Or… do you want to be punished by the lord of Qinghe City?"

The surrounding bandits remained silent, their heads lowered in fear.

From his hiding spot, Chen Ping listened intently, feeling the pieces of the puzzle start to fall into place.

He had been confused from the moment he realized the bandit leader was a Body Refining Cultivator.

It wasn't just about a bandit being a cultivator—that wasn't too unusual. But why would someone of his strength waste time looting refugees? He didn't need their meager belongings, nor did he rely on stolen food when he could hunt or rob wealthier targets.

But when the Qinghe City Lord was mentioned, everything clicked.

It all came down to two things: population control and political convenience.

The city lord, likely under the kingdom's rule, wouldn't want an uncontrolled flood of refugees straining his city's resources. Instead of rejecting them outright and risking a stain on his reputation, he likely chose a simpler method—dealing with the source of the problem itself.

These bandits weren't just looters; they were tools meant to thin out the refugees before they reached the city. And even if some refugees managed to escape, it wasn't an issue.

Once the situation settled, the city lord could eliminate the bandits when it was most convenient, using it as a way to appear just and noble. At the same time, he would accept the remaining refugees to show mercy, maintaining his good image while ensuring his city didn't bear too much of a burden.

In the end, he benefited from every angle—controlling the number of refugees, removing troublesome elements, and strengthening his reputation with minimal effort.

While he was reasoning, the scene in front of him slowly shifted as his view changed.

Now, he was in a forest, with the butcher standing ahead, his shoulder wound tightly wrapped in cloth. Beside him was his son, both of them cautiously making their way forward.

"Father, it seems they aren't chasing us anymore," the son said, glancing around warily.

"Mm," the butcher nodded, his eyes sharp and alert, ready for any danger that might come their way.

While escaping the bandits, he had seen with his own eyes how many villagers, either too slow to escape or simply unlucky, were slaughtered mercilessly. The rest had scattered in different directions.

And now, with unknown dangers ahead, he wasn't sure if they both could safely reach Qinghe City.

But—his grip tightened as he looked at his son. For a brief moment, the face of a cheerful woman overlapped with his son's, a memory surfacing in his mind. His fists clenched.

The scene fast-forwarded. Their journey passed in a blur.

For a whole day, they moved cautiously through the forest, their luck holding out as they finally made it back to the main road. Along the way, they encountered a few scattered refugees, but no large groups. Though the butcher found this unusual, he wasn't in a position to dwell on it.

The journey remained relatively smooth, with the most dangerous encounter being an attack from a desperate refugee sprawled by the roadside. But his weak body was easily shaken off, and with his last breath, he collapsed.

As for food, they barely managed to scavenge enough to keep going.

And finally, after days of travel, a towering city appeared in the distance.

Looking at it, the butcher exhaled deeply. Their struggle had not been in vain.

And soon, they arrived before the towering gates of the city, along with a handful of other refugees.

"STOP!!"

A loud voice echoed from the gate as a figure emerged from a smaller entrance.

It was a middle-aged man clad in dark armor, a sword strapped to his waist. His face was calm yet cold, a hint of undisguised disgust flickering in his eyes as he glanced at the butcher, his son, and the other refugees.

"Refugees are to proceed to the west side, outside the city. There are sufficient accommodations, and food will be provided," he ordered in the same commanding tone.

As his words fell, the tension in the air thickened.

Countless arrows were drawn atop the city walls, archers aiming down at them with cold, unfeeling eyes—ensuring absolute compliance.

Without hesitation, the refugees moved, following the armored middle-aged man.

After a short walk, they arrived at a newly built settlement where rows of shabby huts stood randomly. Some were larger, seemingly meant to house multiple people, while others were barely big enough for one.

"Choose an empty one as your residence," the middle-aged man instructed in his usual curt, cold tone. "Food will be provided twice a day—once in the morning and once at night."

With that, he turned around and left, not sparing them another glance, as if what happened next was none of his concern.

As they walked deeper into the crowded settlement, they saw many other refugees who looked much livelier, with a little more flesh on their bodies. Eventually, the butcher and his son found a small empty hut, just enough for two people to live in.

The scene flashed before Chen Ping's eyes, as time fast forwarded. For nearly half a month, the butcher and his son lived a simple life—receiving gruel and a dark loaf of bread twice a day. Though basic, it was enough to keep them full and fulfilled.

But after that half-month, things started to change. The black bread was gone, and only gruel remained.

The refugees were confused, but no one dared to complain. Even with just this much, they all were content.

However, this was only the beginning. Over the next month, even the gruel grew thinner, with fewer grains and more water—until it was little more than a bland soup.