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

Night, like a massive, ink-soaked black cloth, hung heavy over the Valley of Broken Souls. There was no wind, and the air was thick and oppressive, carrying the lingering scent of battlefield blood, gunpowder smoke, and the nauseating miasma unique to the Valley of Broken Souls. I, Black Scorpion, captain of this elite squad, feared by the enemy, stood on a secluded rock at the valley's entrance, looking back.

Behind us, the purgatory of deafening battles and blazing flames was no longer a purgatory, but a silence completely engulfed by a thick miasma. That miasma, which usually lingered like a ghost, tonight became our best cover, a vast graveyard that buried everything. Our mission was accomplished, or rather, on a tactical level, we had achieved "victory." We had successfully destroyed the "illegal armed forces" that had penetrated deep into our hinterland and caused us so much trouble—those women in uniform, their eyes unusually bright.

They, those female soldiers, have become my unshakable thoughts at this moment.

I looked up at the night sky. Not a single star could be seen on the inky black canopy. Even the moon, timidly hidden behind thick clouds, refused to shed a single glimmer of light. It seemed as if this world, too, was mourning something with its darkness, or perhaps concealing something. Yet, in this pure, suffocating darkness, the gazes of those female soldiers flashed repeatedly before my eyes.

What kind of look is that?

It was anger, like a sword unsheathed, carrying with it a resolute murderous intent that pierced the very soul. As we emerged from the shadows like a black tide, as our icy blades sliced ​​through the night sky, as a barrage of bullets tore through their thin defenses, I saw that rage. It wasn't a roar of despair, but a steely intensity that seemed to burn a hole through the boundless darkness.

They were resilient, like the tenacious vines growing in a deep valley, crushed by boulders, yet still seeking crevices and climbing toward the sunlight. They were vastly outnumbered, their equipment less advanced, and their ammunition increasingly scarce due to constant consumption. Yet, they refused to disintegrate or surrender. Relying on crude fortifications and their familiarity with the terrain, they shielded one another, alternating fire. Each time a fire point went out, another of our soldiers fell. Their astonishing resilience in the face of despair gave even a battle-hardened veteran like me a chill, and an indescribable feeling of deep emotion.

It was compassion, perhaps the look that most perplexed me. In the pauses between fierce exchanges of fire, in the brief moments of standoff, I saw a flicker of compassion in some of their eyes, a compassion that wasn't directed at us individually. It wasn't the pity of the victor for the defeated, nor the condescending gaze of the strong over the weak. Rather, it was a deep sorrow...for this cruel world, for this senseless slaughter. Why were they fighting? What were they mourning?

"Boss, they're a bunch of lunatics!" the wild boar beside him spat, his voice raspy, a mixture of relief at having survived and a subtle hint of fear. He had just personally killed a female soldier who had attempted to detonate a final grenade and die with us. The young soldier, as she fell, seemed to still have a lingering trace of resentment and... clarity in her eyes.

The wild boar was right, they were crazy.

For what? For this war-torn land? Long gone are the birdsong and the flowers, only scorched earth and ruins remain. For those so-called "compatriots" who are displaced and living on a precarious basis? Before our iron hoofs and their "liberation," the people here were merely struggling in another kind of suffering. For an illusory, unattainable "ideal"? An ideal? In the face of survival, ideals are worthless. We, the Black Scorpions, fight for survival, for orders, for our "homeland" (or rather, the concept of "homeland" we've been indoctrinated into). Our goal is clear and realistic: eliminate all "invaders" and maintain "order."

However, when I actually faced these "invaders," a trace of doubt welled up in my heart. Are they really what we think they are?

These "invaders" traveled thousands of miles, leaving their familiar homelands to arrive in this unfamiliar land. Why did they unhesitatingly dedicate their young lives here? Surely their hometowns were free from the smoke and miasma of war? There, surely, were warm homes, caring families, and a stable, peaceful life?

So why did they abandon everything and rush here without hesitation? Was it simply because of the so-called "invasion"? Or was there some reason and belief deep in their hearts that we cannot understand?

We were constantly told that they were "invaders," while we were defending our homeland against outside interference. Every battle we fought, every killing we committed, was accorded the aura of divine "justice." We were heroes, while they were the enemy, the very ones who must be eliminated.

But when I saw their young, determined faces, I suddenly began to doubt this simple definition. They are also flesh and blood people, with their own families, friends, and dreams. Perhaps, in their eyes, we are the real "aggressors"?

This thought frightened me because it challenged everything I had known and believed, but it also made me rethink this war and the role we play in it.

However, when those bright eyes, like quenched stars, burned deep in my memory, and when the wild boar's words "They are crazy" echoed in my ears, a terrible thought, like the miasma of the Valley of Broken Souls, quietly invaded my mind:

In this crazy world, aren't we who are sober also experiencing a deeper sorrow?

Are we really "awake"?

We "consciously" carry out our superiors' orders, without asking why or how much. We "consciously" point our guns at young people like us, those with parents, siblings, and perhaps even those who once held beautiful dreams. We "consciously" see killing as glory, and death as a mere statistic. We "consciously" believe that by eliminating the "enemy" before us, we can achieve peace and tranquility.

But is this really the case?

Tonight, the miasma of Broken Souls Valley consumed them, and many of our brothers as well. Their bodies, and ours, will soon be assimilated into the very soil, becoming fertilizer to nourish the next season's weeds. Their names will become cold statistics in our battle records; and our fallen brothers will become "annihilated enemies" in their reports.

And then? Tomorrow, the sun will rise again, and the war will continue. New "Black Scorpions" will arrive, and new "they" will appear in unexpected places. Hatred will take root like a seed in the hearts of the survivors, and then bloom into more colorful and bloody flowers of evil.

Is this the result of our pursuit of "awakeness"? A never-ending cycle, a deadlock of violence?

Those female soldiers, perhaps they truly were "mad." They were "mad" enough to believe their flesh and blood could stop the ravages of war. They were "mad" enough to believe their faith could awaken a dormant conscience. They were "mad" enough to maintain a clear gaze even in the despair of knowing it was impossible.

But it's precisely this kind of "madness," this kind of "madness" that disregards life and death, that makes me begin to question our "sanity." Is our "sanity" a deeper form of numbness? Is our "rationality" a refined self-interest? Is our "reality" a cowardly escape? An escape from pondering the meaning of war, from questioning the true meaning of peace, from facing the deep reverence for life itself that perhaps has long been buried by the cruelty of reality?

I remembered an unencrypted communication we'd intercepted before we went in. It wasn't a combat order, nor an intelligence report, but a short message, supposedly from a fallen captain: "...Tell my child that Mommy fought for a world without war. If she grows up and the world remains like that, please tell her not to give up hope..."

At the time, we all scoffed at the idea, dismissing it as ridiculously sentimental and hypocritical. A world without war? How naive, how unrealistic. We were "realists," believing only in power through the barrel of a gun, in the law of the jungle where the strong prey on the weak.

But now, standing at the mouth of this valley shrouded in miasma and death, recalling the figures that fell in the sea of ​​fire, recalling the light in their eyes that was brighter than the stars, I suddenly felt that that "crazy talk" was like a fine needle, piercing through the hard shell I had built with countless killings and blood, and piercing a corner deep in my heart that had long been numb.

A world without war...

This thought, like a stone dropped into a stagnant pond, sent ripples flying. I shook my head, trying to dispel it. It was too dangerous. For a Black Scorpion, harboring such thoughts was more terrifying than an enemy on the battlefield. We are tools, blades. We don't need to think, we only need to obey.

Like a giant black python, the Black Scorpion team vanished silently into the night of Broken Souls Valley. Our footsteps were light, carrying the fatigue of mission completion, but also a strange heaviness. No one spoke, only the sound of the wind and our heavy breathing echoed in the silent valley.

Behind him lay a battlefield, gradually being completely engulfed by the miasma. Buried there were too many lives, too many stories, too much... unwillingness.

Those unyielding souls who remain there forever.

Will their souls be unwilling to accept this? Will they regret ending their young lives in such a tragic way? Will they regret this resistance that was doomed to fail?

I do not know.

But I know that their eyes, those eyes brighter than the stars, are seared into the depths of my memory, like an eternal spark in the dark night, burning brightly. They will not dissipate like the smoke of battle, nor will they be consumed by the miasma like a corpse. They will surface again in the dead of night, as I toss and turn. They will make me hesitate the moment I pull the trigger. They will remind me, when I face the next "enemy," that they may share my fears, my confusion, and, like me, a faint longing for peace.

We are black scorpions, assassins in the shadows, messengers of darkness. Our duty is to bring death and terror. We should not think, should not be confused, and even more so should not have... sympathy.

But tonight, the night sky of the Valley of Broken Souls is starless, but my heart is illuminated by a few blazing "stars" from the "enemy." They used their lives to interpret their "madness," and also used their deaths to question our "sanity."

This may be a knot that cannot be untied. In this mad world, "sanity" is the armor we rely on to survive, but also our deepest sorrow. And their "madness" is like a faint but persistent light, making those of us accustomed to darkness feel the glare for the first time, and for the first time, faintly see the cracks in the armor.

The team continued on its way, toward its next target. My steps remained steady, my gaze as sharp as an eagle's. I was still the Black Scorpion captain, the same cold-blooded killer.

But, deep down in my heart, in some unknown corner, the light of those few "stars" seems to never go out. They will become a painful reminder in every killing I do in the future, reminding me of my thoughts tonight, reminding me of the battlefield engulfed by miasma, and the unyielding souls who remain there forever.

This sorrow will perhaps accompany me for the rest of my life, becoming the inescapable fate of this "awake" me. And can the sparks ignited by those female soldiers with their lives truly illuminate even a tiny sliver of darkness? I don't know. But I do know that they have illuminated a corner of my heart, allowing me, amidst the boundless night, to see a deeper sorrow and a glimmer of... a distant respect for that "madness" that I dare not even admit to myself.

The night remained deep. Black Scorpion's figure completely merged into the darkness of the Valley of Broken Souls, leaving behind only a battlefield devoured by miasma and memories, and a soul alone in the darkness, chewing on clarity and madness, victory and sorrow. The road ahead was long, the slaughter continued, and where would this heart, briefly illuminated by a spark, return? Perhaps only the next battle, the next death, would reveal the answer. And the price was bound to be more blood and deeper confusion.