What were the living dead?
As the name suggested, they were creatures that appeared to be dead yet alive, like mindless zombies.
There had long been rumors about them.
The tyrant Ying Zheng was said to command an army of living dead—monsters that feared no pain and felt no emotions.
Unless their limbs were severed, rendering them completely immobile, they would keep fighting even if their hearts were pierced or their heads cut off.
During his conquest of the six states, this tyrant had committed countless massacres, with some cities left completely devoid of life.
Under such circumstances, one would expect the streets to be littered with corpses, right?
Yet in those cities, not a single body could be found. Thus, rumors spread that the slain had been used to create the living dead army.
Given how exaggerated these rumors were, the assassin didn't quite believe in the existence of such an army.
But he did believe in the living dead as monsters, because he had once encountered one himself.
Its body bore numerous fatal wounds, and its head was nearly split in two—yet it kept moving.
What's more, not a single drop of blood flowed from its wounds, making it all the more terrifying.
Back then, he had been so frightened that he abandoned his companions and fled alone.
And now, standing here, he couldn't shake the feeling that the civilians around him weren't truly alive. The eerie, intangible presence they exuded reminded him more and more of the living dead he had encountered before.
"Sister, do you feel like these civilians…"
One of the trans-temporal historical observers, the Valkyrie Randgriz, also sensed something amiss.
These common folk were behaving strangely—they had all fallen silent at the exact same moment.
After all, some of them, blocked by those in front, couldn't see the First Emperor raising his hand to signal for silence. Even if they noticed the people ahead suddenly quieting down, they shouldn't have all gone silent simultaneously.
Normally, the hush should have spread outward from those closest to the First Emperor.
Those farther back, unable to see his gesture, would only react after observing the people in front. It shouldn't have been perfectly synchronized.
Yet this eerie, perfectly timed silence suggested something unnatural—as if everyone had been—
"As if they were being controlled, right?"
Brunhilde finished her sister's thought.
To achieve such synchronization would be unusual unless it were trained soldiers, but with so many civilians involved, it was downright eerie.
That's why Randgriz suspected this First Emperor might be using some dark art to manipulate the entire populace.
Was such a thing possible?
Not impossible at all.
Hadn't they previously searched for the souls of historical figures, only to find many souls completely untraceable?
Hadn't they also witnessed Xiang Yu transferring his soul from his original body?
Perhaps those souls had vanished, leaving behind empty shells controlled by the First Emperor through some sorcery.
In other words, the vast majority of people at this grand military parade were likely puppets under the Emperor's control.
And those who sought to exploit this opportunity to incite chaos had probably already been exposed.
The moment they struck, they would be met with attacks from these living dead.
But would the First Emperor truly commit such an atrocity?
Ripping out the souls of countless commoners, turning them into his mindless puppets?
And the gods of the East—had they not noticed this at all?
Perhaps they only realized the Emperor's dark arts later, leading to the downfall of this mighty dynasty after barely a decade.
Rumors said the First Emperor had done many things in pursuit of immortality—could this soul-extraction be part of that process?
Experimenting with soul transference to move his own soul into a stronger vessel?
And the mechanical body they had seen Xiang Yu in—wasn't that a product of this very technology?
No wonder such jarringly advanced techniques had suddenly appeared in this era.
Suddenly, war drums boomed, their battle-hungry rhythm snapping Brunhilde out of her thoughts.
The Emperor had begun reviewing his invincible, battle-hardened army.
The soldiers, veterans of countless campaigns, moved in flawless formation.
From their synchronized steps, the precision of their weapon swings, to their razor-sharp gazes—Brunhilde felt this was, without exaggeration, the strongest army in the world, in this era.
Their hearts were unshakable. At their sovereign's command, they would dare to challenge the gods themselves.
And they were not the living dead—they were truly alive.
As the drums grew fiercer, the army's morale sharpened to a point where it seemed capable of piercing the heavens, stirring even the gods.
The drumbeats quickened, their sound almost magical, transcending time and space to unsettle Brunhilde's heartbeat, sending a faint chill through her.
As the drums faded—
"Who says we lack robes? We share them with our comrades. When the king calls us to arms, we sharpen our spears, united in vengeance..."
Not just the soldiers—the Emperor, his ministers, even the commoners—all sang in unison.
Hmm?
Brunhilde noticed the assassins from the six fallen states, hidden among the crowd, finally making their move.
Hidden daggers slipped from sleeves, gleaming coldly before slashing toward a civilian's throat.
Flesh tore, the windpipe nearly severed—a fatal wound by any measure.
The assassin who had just completed his task didn't bother to check on the civilian afterward, immediately moving toward his next target.
The sharp blade plunged viciously into the chest of another nearby civilian, aiming straight for the heart.
Then, he froze in confusion—the blade met unexpected resistance. Had it struck a rib?
Gritting his teeth, he forced the blade deeper with another brutal thrust before yanking it out, expecting a gush of blood.
But no blood came.
As the blade withdrew, its edge appeared chipped, and the torn clothing revealed the pierced wound beneath. The sight left the assassin stunned—no blood at all. Through the gaping wound, he glimpsed something that sent chills down his spine.
There was no flesh inside.
Worse, his target ignored the attack entirely, continuing to loudly chant a war song.
A terrible realization struck him. He whirled toward his first victim—the one whose throat he had slit—only to find the person still standing, emitting distorted, voiceless noises from the severed windpipe.
At that moment, terror seized the assassin.
And he wasn't alone. Every assassin present stood frozen in horror.
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