Bologue stood on the stalled tank as soldiers sward towards him like ants; it was at this mont that Bologue suddenly rembered the question he had pondered earlier.
How long has he truly spent in this Hell?
Bologue questioned himself and answered, "Perhaps... ten years?"
Ten years.
For an ordinary person, this is a despairing ti scale, but for Bologue, it’s rely a sowhat harsh trial; long ago, in the endless darkness of the Black Prison, Bologue beca accustod to all of this.
Bologue never felt despair or pain; he only felt boredom and monotony during this prolonged slaughter.
Monotonous and tedious life.
Indeed, that’s how Bologue describes this tornt that has lasted for ten years.
The first soldier clambered onto the tank, yet before he could launch an attack, Blade severed his head, followed closely by the second, third... countless others.
There’s no life more monotonous than this.
At least in the days of the Black Prison, Bologue had the ti to ponder, to contemplate philosophical questions, but here, he’s rely passing the ti.
So might describe Bologue as having beco a killing machine, but Bologue feels more like a factory assembly line worker; his job is to dispatch these enemies. No matter how thrilling the battle, after ten years, it becos just an efficient task.
Just like slaughtering fish on the assembly line.
By now, Bologue is skilled in this; even by rely listening to the enemy’s cries, he can precisely swing the Blade, severing the sound that approaches from afar.
Sotis, in this tornt, Bologue would beco disheartened; he’d miss Palr’s cold jokes, miss the days of watching movies together, and he misses Aimou, who always asked silly questions. Bologue misses those silly questions and, if given the chance, would embrace her upon eting again.
Bologue also yearns to taste food once more, preferably with a glass of iced orange juice, and if possible, he’d like to have a good sleep.
Thinking this way, countless corpses piled up at the edge of the tank, circle after circle, like hills rising from the ground.
Such hills are abundant on the battlefield; once accumulated to a certain height, they collapse, with the amassed bodies leveling the earth, subsequently covered by yellow soil. Through Bologue’s efforts, in ten years, the horizontal height of this eternal battlefield should have risen by at least several ters.
There should be no more enemies; Bologue sat down on top of the vehicle, waiting for the next bugle call.
Bologue is a stubborn, tenacious person; he won’t concede... not even Ewen has conceded, so during his breaks, Bologue won’t just quietly contemplate; sotis, he looks up and talks to the scorching sun.
"I won’t concede."
Bologue’s voice appears sowhat dry; in these ten years, he rarely spoke, almost as if he’s lost his ability to communicate.
"I seldom win," he added, "but eventually, I will win."
The sun dimd down; it was its first anomaly in ten years, followed by the entire sky turning black, shadows engulfing the earth, enveloping Bologue as well.
Bologue wasn’t panicked by this; he waited quietly, until the sound of cracking glass echoed in the darkness, as if sothing was collapsing, then a faint light rose from the end of the dark.
For the first ti in ten years, Bologue smiled.
"I’ve co to rescue you," Bologue mumbled to himself, "I’ve co to rescue all of you."
Bologue picked up Blade and walked towards the light; this protracted slaughter lasting ten years was over; now Bologue is headed towards another battle.
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