168: Chapter 168 Old soldiers never die, they all become sparks.

Gu Yuanshan looked as if his strength had been drained, stumbling half a step.

"In the fifth year, a machete cut a gash on the back of my hand. I didn't feel any pain, and not a single drop of blood appeared."

Old Zhou turned over his left hand, revealing a three-inch-long white mark on the back. It was smooth and pale, with no trace of a scar belonging to a living person.

"If a living person took a hit like that, how could they not cry out in pain?" a tall, thin man in the second row spoke up.

"By the eighth year, I knew clearly," a round-faced young team member said, staring at his toes. "My military canteen—I've been drinking from it for eight years, and it's never run dry."

"For me, it was the twelfth year," another voice rang out. "I've almost forgotten what my own mother looks like, yet I can strip and reassemble the parts of this rifle with my eyes closed without missing a second. Could a living person forget their mother but remember their gun?"

Not a single word was wasted.

Eleven men, eleven different ways they had realized they were long dead.

Not one of them had spoken up, all because the captain hadn't given the word.

The captain continued to lead the team in surveying, cleaning rifles, and marching, his back ramrod straight as he said the mission was still ongoing.

So they kept at it. That was a soldier's duty.

Old Zhou grinned, revealing a row of teeth. "Captain, back then when you shouted to scout further ahead, I was the first to volunteer."

"Even if you hadn't given the order, I would have kept digging. We're exploration soldiers; dying in a mine shaft is a fitting end for us."

Old Zhou grabbed Gu Yuanshan's arm and added a stinging remark at the top of his lungs, "But you, at your age, suppressing yourself into this pathetic state—it's shameful!"

"That's enough." Old Zhou steadied Gu Yuanshan's swaying body with a firm grip on his wrist. "The mission is over, Captain."

"It's time to dismiss the squad."

"Old Zhou..."

Gu Yuanshan looked at Old Zhou, then at the other team members, and finally turned his gaze toward the sky.

He let out a deep sigh, filled with a sense of relief.

"It's already been fifty-two years..."

Gu Yuanshan straightened his posture completely.

He drew in a breath, but his withered chest didn't rise or fall in the slightest.

He turned around, no longer looking at Jiang Feng, but facing due south instead.

Facing the world outside the mountains, a world they hadn't truly seen in fifty-two years.

Chest out, stomach in, heels together.

His right hand snapped up, fingertips level with his right eyebrow.

This was a military salute frozen in 1974, forcefully bridging half a century.

Shua!

The sound of synchronized footsteps came from behind him.

The eleven team members snapped to attention in unison, their military boots striking the broken bricks with a single, sharp crack.

Eleven right hands, eleven perfect military postures.

They all looked back toward that summer of 1974.

The military songs they sang throughout the train ride into the mountains, the cup of hot water poured from an aluminum kettle by the conductor—they had remembered that warmth for fifty-two years.

Gu Yuanshan held the salute steadily for three seconds.

At the fourth second, the tips of his shoes began to turn translucent.

Like a receding phantom, the effect rolled up his calves.

By the time it reached his knees, his entire being transformed into fragments of fine, golden-brown light dust.

Jiang Feng saw it clearly.

The color was identical to the luster of the soil of reshaping tucked away in his pocket.

The twelve men disintegrated from the feet up.

The light dust burned upward to their chests; against the gray sky, it looked like sunlight hitting floating particles, a brilliant golden expanse.

Gu Yuanshan's right hand, held at his brow, was the last to remain.

Two seconds later, this lingering obsession was also scattered by the mountain wind, merging into twelve shimmering golden columns of dust that drifted toward the south.

Jiang Feng stood where he was, neither moving nor looking away.

He didn't give a military salute; instead, he placed his right hand over his heart, his back perfectly straight.

This was the highest respect a living descendant could offer to twelve old soldiers who had died fifty-two years ago.

Dust to dust, earth to earth.

The twelve Type 56 rifles lying on the ground, along with the barracks bungalows to the east, all seemed to weather away in an instant.

Wood turned to debris, steel turned to ash.

Even the wreckage of the magnetic field interference meter at Jiang Feng's feet didn't leave behind a single screw.

The vast Abandoned Well Square was suddenly emptied of a large section.

Xun Bai leaned back in the grand tutors chair, his gaze fixed intently on that empty space.

Having cultivated for two thousand years, he was used to the ebb and flow of life, yet today, his Dao heart had been forcefully shattered by the obsession of a few mortal soldier ruffians.

The Thin-faced Disciple stood behind him, his fingers gripping the short staff loosening stiffly before suddenly tightening again.

"They... were true armored warriors."

The Old Daoist Priest dropped this remark and slowly stood up.

His wide sleeves hung down as his black cloth shoes stepped silently onto the broken bricks.

Xun Bai didn't mention checking the items, nor did he order his disciple to act.

He simply let his hands hang at his sides, quietly watching the mud-covered outsider.

He was waiting.

Waiting for that finger, which could sever life, death, and karma, to be raised one last time.

Jiang Feng withdrew his gaze and wiped the muddy water from his face with force.

He turned around to face the grand tutors chair.

He raised his hand, pointing his index finger straight ahead, firmly locking onto the space between the two-thousand-year-old monster's brows.

"One last divination."

"Old gentleman, it's time to settle your messy accounts."