Turning the street corner, Malin noticed a battlefield, with fallen soldiers everywhere—both from the Revolutionary Army and the Royalist Party. These young lives had used their lives to uphold the beliefs of their lives. Beside the street corner lay many corpses, and soldiers of the Revolutionary Party were dragging a new batch of nobles to the wall. "No, you shouldn’t do this. These are nobles, respectable gentlemen!" someone shouted loudly from the side, but no one paid attention to him. Malin watched his back; it was the Bishop of the Goddess of Harvest. He wore a thin robe, and the old man with a face flushed from the cold wanted to rush into the execution ground more than once but was blocked each time by soldiers and commissars. "Sir! You are a follower of the Goddess of Harvest. You shouldn’t disrupt the great plan of His Highness Malin!" the young commissar said loudly here, seeing Malin walking over, so he pushed the old man aside and then saluted Malin. The old man also saw Malin. He staggered over: "This is a crime against the nobles, Your Highness Malin, I beg you, save those children, they are about to be taken to the execution ground!" "Old Mack." Malin remembered the old man’s name: "A few days ago when the nobles killed members of Northernism and their families, you were there." "Your Highness Malin, Lord Mack spoke for our comrades, but the Royalist bastards ignored him." A soldier spoke up for justice. This made Malin nod: "Old Mack, you heard it, right. You did what you could, but they ignored you. Children of the Northernists were hanged on the gallows and suffered greatly before their deaths. Now we are merely repaying this suffering to the murderers." "Your Highness! Mutual slaughter will only prolong hatred!" "So should we forgive those who killed our comrades and their children? Old Mack, your mercy is misplaced, go back." Malin pushed the old man away, then motioned to the commissar to drag those children to the execution ground. Old Mack fell to the ground, finally supported by a proxy of the Church, he looked at those children lying in the pool of blood, and finally cried bitterly. Malin didn’t know how to comfort this nearly seventy-year-old man. The tragedies seen this week were probably unlike anything he’d seen in his entire life. Malin was completely powerless about it. It wasn’t until the last of the women had been beaten to death that Malin chose to leave. I must watch every damned person die in front of me, I must watch the blood flow like a river, because this is what they owe to the innocents killed by their fathers and brothers. Malin searched his heart, walking along the street, with dead nobles, Royalist soldiers, and revolutionaries. High and flat shooting platforms were advancing, the humanoid mechanics protection unit No.1 was providing covering fire from the platform’s rear, while the soldiers contested control room by room. The Revolutionary Army soldiers finally approached the defensive line. Malin saw the banner of the Northern Kingdom being held by Royalist soldiers. Under his leadership, the Royalist soldiers emerged from the trenches. As both sides advanced, volleys were exchanged, and those hit fell silently. Both sides’ flag bearers fell down, but in the next moment, the commissars picked up each other’s battle flags, then using the flags as spears, they thrust their weapons into each other’s chests. The wave of bayonettes crashed together without any pause, the soldiers of the Revolutionary Army shattered their opponents. The first row of soldiers saw the second wave of counterattacks from the opponents, resolutely began to gather, with the second wave of soldiers quickly moving forward behind them. Then the sound of machine guns rang out. The four-barreled machine guns swept across, tearing through walls made of human bodies with one touch. The soldiers of the Revolutionary Army ultimately crossed the defensive line in silence, giving the Royalist soldiers who were shot but not yet dead a merciful ending—this was the final mercy because for those with lower bodies shattered by 20 mm rounds, only death awaited. Rather than dying in extreme pain, it was better to be finished off swiftly. Sometimes, death is the best gift. As Malin walked past the defensive line, the Royalist commissar pierced through the chest by the battle flag was already at death’s door, while his opponent was receiving first aid. He watched his opponent receive the same futile treatment, and then lifted his head to look at Malin. The injury to his lung made it impossible to speak, air escaped from the wound, and the commissar struggled to search for something in his pocket. Malin crouched beside him, pulled out a cigarette box, took one out, and placed it in his hand. "Kaylin Sharjen, I know you, you and your regiment held the oak forest for three days and nights, you fought well." Malin extended his hand, patting his shoulder. The young commissar managed a smile, his breath growing more labored. The soldier being rescued over there threw away the blood-soaked bandages in anger, pulling out a pistol and walking over. "Let me." Malin extended his hand. A request from a highness made the soldier have to look back at his commissar, and finally, with a grievance, he handed over the pistol. Malin confirmed there was a bullet in the gun with one hand, then stood up: "Kaylin, why did you stand against us, I remember your brother is also a Northernist." Malin remembered his brother, a very young commissar who sympathized with Northernism. The young man shed tears, pointing at the commissar lying on the ground.