The Bad Girl's Quick Transmigration System: Traveling Back and Forth

Darkness, like the thickest ink, splattered every inch of the Valley of Broken Souls. The stench of blood still lingered, a mixture of smoke, dirt, and a certain... a strange, feminine scent of sweat and smoke, lingering in the icy air. My name is Mo, the "shadow" of the Black Scorpion, an assassin accustomed to treading in darkness and gloring in silent killing. At this moment, I stood in the center of this freshly blood-soaked land, my feet on the soft, soft soil mixed with shrapnel and flesh.

The wind, carrying the valley's distinct chill, brushed my cheek, like the caress of a lover, yet tinged with the chill of death. My gaze swept across the devastated battlefield, the twisted bodies that belonged to "them." Yes, they, those in sexy bikinis and leather uniforms, their faces still etched with childish stubbornness. Some, though fifteen or sixteen, even eleven or twelve, girls, even young children, possessing strength above the Minor Success stage of the Earth Realm, dared to use their flesh and blood to fight against our Black Scorpion female soldiers.

Just a few hours ago, this place was a purgatory. The crackle of gunfire, explosions, the screams of the dying, the muffled thud of blades biting flesh... intertwined into a symphony of madness and despair. We, the Black Scorpions, are the most feared force in this land. We are an elite mercenary force comprised of top assassins, retired special forces soldiers, and desperate criminals. We are well-equipped, well-trained, and we regard human life as nothing. We have never failed a mission we have ever taken on.

The objective of this mission was to destroy the "women's commando" entrenched in the Valley of Broken Souls. Intelligence reported that they were small in number, poorly equipped, a hastily assembled ragtag group blinded by some ridiculous "belief." Initially, we believed this. We even treated them with a touch of playfulness and contempt, as if we were engaging in a hunting game.

However, the brutality of the battle far exceeded all of our expectations.

They had no escape route; behind them lay the evacuation route for the civilians they were sworn to protect. Their firepower was weak, and many were still using outdated rifles or even grenades. Their tactics were not sophisticated, relying more on terrain and a fearless charge. But their eyes...

Those eyes surfaced uncontrollably in my mind. Even amidst the fiercest artillery fire, even after being pelted by bullets, even after their limbs were mutilated, those eyes never dimmed. It wasn't fear, it wasn't despair, but a near-burning determination, a tenacity tempered by fire. In the darkness, in the cracks of the smoke, those eyes shone like the most distant yet brilliant stars in the night sky, blazing stubbornly, as if piercing through the boundless darkness.

There is hope there, a hope that is pursued even though one knows it is impossible; there is power there, a power that comes from the depths of the soul and should not be underestimated.

I remember a young female soldier, no more than eighteen or nineteen, her face still pockmarked with acne. Her arm, lacerated by shrapnel, was bleeding, but she simply gritted her teeth, bandaged it with a rag, and continued firing her rifle. As I crept up behind her, ready to finish her off with my saber, she seemed to sense something and jerked her head back. At that moment, I saw her eyes. They were clear, yet held a firmness that belied her age. She didn't scream, didn't dodge, but with all her might, using her rifle like a club, she smashed her helmet against my head.

There was a crisp "clang" sound, which made my palm numb. I was stunned for a moment, and in that moment of daze, she had already detonated the only remaining grenade at her waist.

"Black Scorpion! Go to hell!" Her voice was hoarse, but filled with a determination to perish together with her.

I instinctively rolled out of the way, and the blast sent me flying. When I climbed back up, all that remained was a bloody, mangled hole and a few charred fragments of my uniform. The wind blew the fragments away like black butterflies.

At that moment, a strange feeling welled up in my heart for the first time. Not anger, not regret, but an indescribable shock. For what? Was it worth it? I couldn't figure it out. In our world of Black Scorpions, survival is the first rule, profit the only guide. Giving up one's young life for a vague "belief," for a group of strangers, is sheer folly.

But the light in her eyes was like a needle, piercing into my heart that had long been covered with killing and coldness.

And then there was their leader, a woman in her thirties, codenamed "Phoenix." She was our primary target. Her marksmanship was precise, her tactics were methodical, and she always managed to cause us trouble in the most unlikely of places. Several of our best fighters fell to her. In the end, she was surrounded by us, shot multiple times, one leg broken, and she could only support herself on one knee, clutching an empty pistol.

Her face was covered in blood and dust, her hair was messy and stuck to her forehead, but her eyes were surprisingly bright. She looked at us without pleading for mercy or fear, and there was even a hint of mockery at the corner of her mouth.

"You...can't win." Her voice was soft, but it reached everyone's ears clearly. "Our blood will not be shed in vain. There will always be someone...who will remember us, and there will always be someone...who will keep going."

Then, with the last of her strength, she pointed the pistol at her temple.

"boom!"

The gunshots echoed in the silent valley, shattering the last trace of contempt in our hearts.

I've witnessed countless deaths, and all manner of enemies. Some, cowardly, begged for mercy, some madly fought back to their deaths, and some, hopelessly numb, submitted to slaughter. But I've never seen a group of people like this, a group of women. They were like moths to a flame, knowing destruction lay ahead, yet they remained resolute.

Their eyes, the eyes that never go out in the darkness, are like the brightest stars in the night sky, shining with what we have long lost - hope and strength.

Now, the battle was over. We had "won." We had taken the Valley of Broken Souls, and the Women's Rangers were completely annihilated. The valley was utterly silent, leaving only us, the victors, and the corpses strewn across the ground. Back in the mountain stronghold, the news must have reached them, and a similar silence fell. This deathly silence, unlike the tranquility of victory, was instead a heavy mourning, echoing in the darkness of the Valley of Broken Souls.

Our Black Scorpion masters were now scattered across the battlefield, some inspecting and cleaning, some resting on guard, and some smoking quietly. No one's face was filled with the joy of victory, but instead with a complex and solemn expression. The battle just now, like a nightmare, was deeply etched in our memories. The look in the eyes of those female soldiers, their determination and perseverance, became an unforgettable scene for us.

I walked over to Captain Phoenix's body and crouched down. Her eyes were still wide open, staring into the deep night sky, as if searching for something. I reached out and gently closed her eyelids. My fingertips touched her cold skin, and the strange feeling in my heart resurfaced.

"Boss, we've cleared everything." A gruff voice boomed from behind me. It was our assaulter, codenamed "Wild Boar." He had a fresh scar on his face, inflicted by a female soldier's bayonet. "Damn, those women are fucking crazy! They're taking their own lives!" he spat, his tone tinged with fear and a subtle hint of... awe?

I stood up and patted his shoulder: "What are the casualties?"

The muscles on Wild Boar's face twitched: "Seven brothers were killed and more than a dozen were seriously injured. Damn, this is the heaviest loss since our establishment. For such a group of..." He wanted to say something, but finally swallowed it back and just took a deep puff of his cigarette.

Yes, for such a mob, we paid an unprecedented price. Was it worth it? From the perspective of the task itself, we accomplished our goal, our employer was satisfied, and we received a generous commission. But from another perspective, we seemed to have lost even more.

I looked at the other team members. "Viper," our sniper, sat on a rock, polishing his beloved sniper rifle. His eyes were always cold, like his nickname. But now, his movements were slow, his gaze vacant, as if he were lost in thought. Just now, he had been forced back by a seemingly harmless medic with a homemade Molotov cocktail, nearly destroying his sniper rifle. That medic, in the end, dragged one of our team members into the abyss with him.

"Old Ghost," our demolition expert, was squatting on the ground, staring blankly at the blasted, mangled corpse of a female soldier. He was a seasoned veteran, a man who had seen every storm and wave imaginable. But at this moment, his brow was furrowed, his fingers tapping the ground unconsciously.

Which of us, the masters of the Black Scorpion, hasn't emerged from a sea of ​​blood and corpses? Whose hands aren't stained with blood? We believe in the law of the jungle, we scoff at so-called ideals and justice. We believe our hearts have long been as hard as iron, as cold as stone.

But today, facing the souls of these deceased female soldiers, the thick layer of ice deep in our hearts seems to have been pried open a little.

What are they doing this for?

This question, like a ghost, hovers in the mind of each of us.

If they are just after money or survival, they can join us or simply surrender. Given their fighting power and willpower, any faction would be happy to accept them.

If they are after power and status, in this chaotic world, there are many "shortcuts" for women to obtain these, and there is no need to be so tragic.

So, were they doing this for the so-called "civilians"? Those lives that, in our view, are as insignificant as ants, ready to be sacrificed at any moment? This is even more incomprehensible. Isn't the value of life determined by power and status? Sacrificing one's own precious life to protect a group of people who are worthless to oneself is simply the most foolish thing in the world.

The spirit they demonstrated, the determination, the persistence, the courage to not fear strong enemies and to refuse to surrender even in death, has surpassed the comprehension of those of us who are accustomed to measuring everything by interests and values.

So, when we think back on these female soldiers, how do we evaluate them?

I do not know.

The wild boar might call them "crazy," the venomous snake might think they are "stupid," and the old ghost might think they are "pathetic." Everyone has a different understanding of courage, sacrifice, and value.

To me, they are...very "pure." Like an uncut jade, fragile yet radiant with a light we've long lost. Their actions, to us, may seem incomprehensible and insane, but in their own logic, perhaps they are incredibly correct and worthwhile.

This kind of "purity" feels unfamiliar to us, even... a little frightening. For it reveals the desolation and emptiness within us. We possess immense power, we control the life and death of others. We appear to possess everything, yet our souls, like the night itself, are pitch black, starless.

Although they are weak and dead, their souls seem to have turned into stars in the night sky, shining in the darkness.

"Hey, Mo, what are you thinking about?" Wild Boar came over and patted my shoulder, interrupting my thoughts. "The boss wants us to gather and prepare to evacuate."

I nodded, taking one last look at the devastated battlefield, at the figures lying quietly in the darkness. Their bodies were already cold, but their eyes seemed to still be watching us from the darkness.

The night, as dark as ink, enveloped not only the land but also the hearts of us survivors. The deathly silence of the Valley of Broken Souls and the hushed stillness of the mountain stronghold echoed in the darkness, telling the end of a brutal battle. But beyond this end, there is more than nothingness. After countless lives were lost, we, the survivors, were left with complex and heavy echoes.