No one noticed Brian Clark's odd behavior, and at this moment, no one would pay attention to what a minor village chief was thinking or doing.

People from different eras have different experiences; even in the same era, there are all kinds of lives, and no one is the same.

If this were an immortal cultivation novel, the protagonist would probably have already been possessed by inner demons or gone mad from a deviation in cultivation, but in the end, he would suddenly have an epiphany, break through, and ultimately defeat his inner demons, gaining a huge boost in power. Unfortunately, this is not an immortal cultivation or martial arts story. He finally collapsed to the ground, trembling, still muttering to himself.

“What should I do?”

“I should run away, I’m just not cut out to be a soldier…”

“If I go to the battlefield, I’ll definitely be killed!”

Right now, who cares whether the straight road is some ancient mystery, who cares about the rigidity or allure of the Qin army, who cares whether the prisoners of war will be killed and buried in the end—his long-avoided fear was finally exposed.

“What on earth should I do!”

“Run, I have to run!”

He tried hard to control his trembling, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t succeed. He couldn’t even manage to prop himself up and sit.

His thoughts spun out of control, jumping wildly. One second he might be thinking “how do I escape,” and the next, “Right! I didn’t time travel, I just got knocked out by the supermarket door and I’m having a weird dream,” desperately wishing he could wake up.

He stared straight at the sky, feeling that it was very blue, the drifting white clouds like tufts of cotton candy. His arm unconsciously reached out, trying to grasp them.

Slowly, slowly, his vision became a bit blurry. He wanted to close his eyes but couldn’t, and when he tilted his head, he seemed to see a large group of people approaching from afar?

“Uhh…” He didn’t know how to describe this voice; it sounded just like a piece of cloth being pulled, extremely faint: “Another poor wretch about to be killed and buried…” After speaking, he cackled, laughing nonstop.

It felt as if a century had passed before he suddenly sensed someone grabbing his shoulder, trying to pull him up.

Heaven have mercy, Edward finally noticed Brian Clark's abnormal state. This sturdy fellow couldn’t understand why his comrade was acting like a limp noodle, and tried his best to help him stand, but he kept slumping down.

After several failed attempts, Edward finally accepted reality and supported Brian Clark, who clung to him like a slug, barely managing not to collapse.

Edward was stunned for a while before he understood. Many new recruits go through this process, but lacking eloquence, he never thought to comfort his fairly close buddy. As a veteran who had fought in the war of unification, he knew this was something one had to get through on their own—everyone did.

This time, there weren’t many nomads being escorted here, only about three hundred, most of them elderly or children. They did not escape the fate of being killed and buried; amid screams, they became corpses.

Two faces: one dark, one deathly pale.

Two expressions: one simple and honest, one neurotic.

The simple face had a very calm gaze, his pupils reflecting the crisscrossing blood and corpses, displaying a different kind of cruelty.

Neurotic? Yes, still just as neurotic…

Chapter 0011: Army Camp Merchant

With a “whoosh,” the tent flap was closed, and the light around dimmed.

Many people experience a brief mental blank or short-term memory loss after a shock, but this did not happen to Brian Clark. He remembered very clearly everything that had happened that day, including the seven waves of nomads who were slaughtered—over three thousand people.

There was no foul smell in the air. He could already control his breathing, and the spasms in his stomach had stopped, but the feeling of nausea still lingered.

Night was falling. Outside the tent, torches had been lit, and through the gray fabric, he could see the shadows of soldiers passing by, their footsteps frequent.

For Brian Clark, everything today was so surreal that he could hardly tell whether they were building a straight road or constructing a hell on earth. The only comfort now was that those killed were all foreigners, not fellow Han Chinese, which would have been even harder for him to accept.

He knew that glutinous rice was used in ancient construction, like in the Forbidden City. Glutinous rice is very sticky and increases the adhesion of stones and bricks, making buildings strong enough.

“Why did they kill so many people on the straight road?”

Was it to make the road more solid? Because human blood has a similar effect, not to mention flesh and organs.

Building large projects in an age without advanced machinery required massive labor, and during the work, accidents would inevitably cause casualties. The number of deaths from a single accident was unimaginable.

He seemed to recall a documentary mentioning that densely packed bones were found in damaged sections of the Great Wall. But there was no record of large-scale remains being found along the Qin straight road, so mass slaughter for construction strength could probably be ruled out.

“Oooh…”

A long horn sounded, signaling mealtime, forcing Brian Clark to get up. He fastened his sword and the leather pouch with his utensils to his waist, bent slightly, and lifted the tent flap.