If you wish to view such things now, it is but a futile attempt to grasp the moon’s reflection in water. Do you not see, when pedants rise and heroes die, the Divine Land henceforth boasts of benevolence and righteousness. Yet once the barbarians throw the Central Plains into chaos, scholars scatter like swine and cowards weep.

I wish to learn the ancient style, to revive a spirit of heroism. Fame is but dung and dirt; I scorn the mockery of the righteous.

With a sword that cuts iron at my side, a single rage brings death. Slicing flesh to flavor wine, my laughter startles ghosts and gods.

To kill an enemy a thousand miles away, I would spend ten cycles of stars. Like Zhuan Zhu and Tian Guang, I forge bonds in the darkness.

At dawn I leave by the west gate, at dusk I return with a head in hand. Weary in spirit, I long only for sleep, when suddenly the war horn blares.

Leaving by the west gate, I part from my mother; she grieves, but her son does not. My life is pledged to the annals of history; a man does not return home for long.

To kill and fight between heaven and earth, so fierce it startles the underworld. Every three steps, a man is slain; my heart pauses, but my hands do not.

Blood flows in waves for ten thousand miles, corpses pillow mountains a thousand fathoms high. When the hero’s campaign ends, he lies weary, resting on the enemy’s corpse.

Even in dreams, I kill; my smile shines in pale moonlight. Daughters, do not ask; why are men so fierce?

Since ancient times, benevolence and virtue have only harmed people; righteousness and morality have never been true.

Do you not see, lions and tigers gain fame by hunting prey, but who pities the poor deer? In this world, the strong always devour the weak; even if you have reason, it is in vain.

Ask no more, for a man has his own path.

A man’s path must be violent.

Deeds and benevolence cannot coexist.

A man’s business is on the killing field, with the courage of a bear and the eyes of a wolf.

If born a man, then kill; never let a man’s body hide a woman’s heart.

A man never spares himself; even if he dies at the enemy’s hand, he laughs to the end.

A hundred places of vengeance and battlefields, everywhere I wish to lie with the wild grass.

Men, do not tremble; there is a song for you to hear.

To kill one is a crime; to slaughter ten thousand is to be a hero. Slaughter nine million, and you are the hero of heroes.

Hero among heroes, the path is different; see through a thousand years of fame for benevolence and righteousness; only let this life display heroic spirit.

I do not love a good name, but love an evil one; killing a million, my heart feels no remorse.

Better to have ten thousand gnash their teeth in hatred, than to have none curse my name. Look back on five thousand years—where has there ever been a hero who did not kill?

To speak of teaching, this poem is not much. Especially in the era of Helen Brooks, it seems even more out of place.

Back then, when Helen Brooks finished reading this poem, he only felt his blood boil. He even specially consulted the college student in the village, who said it was written by someone named Samuel Reed. Whether that was true or not, he did not know; he simply memorized it by heart after reciting it over and over.

As the song rose, the scent of blood appeared.

With a shake, the great spear moved like a giant python twisting its body. The spear technique, originally practiced by Charlotte Brooks, was nothing but flowery moves in Edward Thompson’s eyes. Yet when wielded by Helen Brooks, it became extraordinary. Accompanied by his slightly childish singing voice, the once ordinary spear technique became incomparably fierce. Truly, it was “killing a man every ten steps,” so much so that the household guards were terrified.

Edward Thompson swallowed hard, feeling the song stir his own blood.

He couldn’t help but take a step forward, but forcibly stopped himself. He knew very well what that step would mean.

Charlotte Brooks’s household guards lay dead across the training ground.

Meanwhile, Helen Brooks felt as if the strength in his body was inexhaustible, desperately needing an outlet.

With a thunderous shout, he stretched out his arm and hurled the great spear. One of the guards, already chilled with fear, was running toward the edge of the training ground. The spear, whistling through the air, savagely pierced the guard’s chest, and the immense force sent his corpse flying, pinning it to the threshold of the training ground. The body swayed in the air, blood dripping steadily at the entrance.

At this moment, in the training ground, only Charlotte Brooks and Edward Thompson remained, along with one last guard.

Helen Brooks dashed forward, reached the guard, knocked him down with a punch, stomped on one leg, grabbed the other with both hands, and with a mighty shout, tore the guard in half, drenching himself in blood.

His narrow eyes swept the scene, fixing on Edward Thompson.

Edward Thompson shivered, his heart pounding wildly.

“Mildred, I’m your brother-in-law, your fourth sister Grace Brooks’s husband… have you heard of me?”

In Helen Brooks’s bloodshot eyes, a sudden warmth appeared. His body relaxed, and just as he was about to speak, Edward Thompson’s expression changed dramatically, and he shouted in terror, “Watch out!”

Instinctively, Helen Brooks dodged lightly.

A flash of cold light grazed his shoulder—a sharp arrow thudded into the rockery, its fletching still quivering.

Edward Thompson cursed inwardly: Fool!

Just as Helen Brooks’s killing intent was about to fade, that damned Charlotte Brooks actually…

Helen Brooks whirled around, just in time to see Charlotte Brooks nocking another arrow, bow drawn and aimed at him.

There were about twenty paces between them. Helen Brooks roared, “Foolish thief, die for me!”

Edward Thompson couldn’t even see how Helen Brooks moved—it was too fast. Charlotte Brooks, startled by Helen Brooks’s roar, dropped the arrow in his hand. In the blink of an eye, Helen Brooks was upon him. With a punch, he knocked Charlotte Brooks down, then grabbed his legs with both hands, about to tear him apart.

Just then, someone shouted from outside the training ground: “Mildred, show mercy!”

A warhorse charged into the training ground, galloping toward Helen Brooks. The thunder of hooves only made Helen Brooks angrier. He tossed Charlotte Brooks aside, turned, and strode forward, meeting the warhorse with a punch.

With the force of ten thousand pounds, his fist shattered the horse’s head.

The poor horse let out a long, shrill neigh, but its body, carried by momentum, stumbled forward two more steps, flinging its rider to the ground.