Immortal Paladin

I had seen war before, not with these eyes, but through the fractured echoes left in me. From David_69’s inherited memories, to the weary re-lived memories of Nongmin, to the ghosts of a hundred lives I’d touched the day I lost my temper in the Summit Hall and possessed the minds of cultivators and soldiers alike. I thought I understood war. I thought those memories gave me insight, perspective, perhaps even clarity.

They didn’t. Well, they kind of did, but this… was new.

Nothing could’ve prepared me for this, the war through the eyes of a fourteen-year-old foot soldier. And that was a fact.

My hands were trembling. Not from fear, not anymore. I had burned through the worst of that sometime between my first kill and the third. No, what made me tremble now was exhaustion, plain and cruel. I planted my spear into the blood-soaked dirt beside me and leaned on it, breathing through the stench. The wooden shaft of the weapon was slippery in my palm, stained with ichor that wasn’t mine. I could feel blood crusting at the rim of my fingernails. Some of it had dried hours ago. Some of it was still warm.

The wooden stakes we had jammed into the earth as makeshift barriers were matted with flesh and stringy hair. I didn’t want to know if they came from friend or foe. Maybe it didn’t matter anymore.

My armor was too large. I had to stuff linen between my collarbone and the shoulder straps just to keep the cuirass from slipping every time I moved. The helm wobbled with every step, and the chin strap bit into my throat. The whole thing reeked of sour sweat and metal oil. It wasn’t mine… it had probably belonged to some poor sod who had bled out hours before they finally got the attention they need.

I stared down at the battlefield, or what remained of it. Broken spears, shattered swords, and the bodies… gods, the bodies. It wasn’t a clash between proud warriors or grand battles sung by bards. It was tired men with dull weapons, swinging like they wanted to die. Most of them were farmers. Poor, untrained, and malnourished. And I… fourteen, scrawny, just barely touched by Qi… could kill them in seconds.

“Damn it…” I muttered to myself, “War sure fucking sucked.”

But I was alive. That was what mattered.

“Hey, you!” a gravelly voice barked.

I turned, wearily lifting my gaze. Ding Shan, my assigned superior, stood behind me. Grizzled, his beard peppered with more grey than black, he looked like he’d been in three wars before this one and survived by the sheer force of stubbornness.

“Dig a latrine for us, kid. We’re staying here for the long haul,” he said, waving a hand toward the edge of the camp. “Orders from the brass. We hold the line here.”

There was no concern that I’d just returned from a rather immense battle for a fourteen-year-old and had likely taken a life an hour ago. Just plain boring orders on what to do next. I was a soldier now. And soldiers did what they were told.

I gave a tired nod. “Yes, sir.”

My boots squelched with every step as I made my way to the rear of the encampment. I found a quiet patch of dirt near the broken remnants of a wooden barricade. The sun was already low, casting a sickly orange hue over the field. I stared at the spot for a few seconds, letting out a sigh.

“Right. A pit,” I muttered.

I picked up a short-handled shovel someone had left leaning against a rock. The ground was dry, packed hard from years of use and recent trampling. I had to put my whole weight into the first dig. And then the next. And the next. Each shovelful scraped my nerves thinner.

How deep did they want this thing? I didn’t know. There wasn’t a rulebook. My memories didn’t have guidelines for proper latrine depth, despite all the martial wisdom I’d absorbed. I guessed about waist-deep. That would be safe, right? No splashing? Yeah… no one wanted splashback.

Once I finished the pit, I looked around for something to mark it. A stick and a cross? Too dramatic. A little white cloth on a stick? That would work. I tied a scrap of torn undershirt to a broken spear and planted it beside the hole. Symbolic enough to ward off curious idiots.

There. One war latrine, courtesy of Da Wei.

I glanced around, saw no one in the immediate vicinity, and shrugged. “No foul for blessing the latrine, right?”

With that said… and against what little pride I had left, I squatted.

Five minutes passed in peace. I leaned back, elbows resting on my knees. The air was surprisingly cool here, the stink of the battlefield just distant enough not to ruin the moment. Honestly? It wasn’t the worst thing I’d experienced.

Leaves. That was the part I hadn’t expected. I hadn’t used actual foliage since… well, never. Not even in the Hollowed World. Even the outer sects of the lesser clans from what I heard had basic hygiene talismans. But here I was, wiping my ass with the cleanest, flattest leaves I could find behind a half-burned tree stump.

I sighed as I stood and adjusted my armor again.

“I miss Earth,” I muttered to no one.

I missed running water. I missed toilet paper. I missed being able to eat without worrying how it would affect my bowels in a camp full of fifty other soldiers. I missed my old body, one that could digest spirit meat and pill powder without consequence. I missed a lot of things.

But mostly?

I missed my people.

Should I dig another latrine?

The question crossed my mind as I stared at the hastily tied cloth marking the pit I had just finished. There were a lot of us. Ding Shan had said we’d be staying for the long haul, and if the long haul meant days… or heaven forbid, weeks… then one latrine wasn’t going to cut it.

Compared to the greater whole of the Empire’s army, our unit was small. But that still meant a few hundred sweaty men eating bad rations and relieving themselves twice a day. That’s a lot of shit. So, I dug two more latrines, further back this time, spacing them properly and adding new cloth markers like some sort of dung architect.

War had turned me into a civil engineer of bodily functions.

After completing my sanitary masterpieces, I made my way back to the front lines. I felt tired, sure, but proud. Until I heard it, that unmistakable tone of indignation wrapped in a voice that was just a few years older than mine.

“That brat only had to dig a latrine while we were hauling bodies for mass graves,” a soldier sneered, voice rising just enough for everyone nearby to hear as he complained to Ding Shan.

I turned my head. The speaker was a wiry teen with a sharp jaw and too much pride in his posture. His armor was properly fitted, his boots polished. He carried his spear like it was a family heirloom. That told me everything I needed to know. The name embroidered on his breastplate confirmed it.

Yuen Fu.

Ah. A basic young master case.

I’d met his kind before. Back on Earth, in Hollowed World, and even here on this war-torn battlefield. The universal constant across realms was that young masters always had something to prove, especially when they felt ignored.

Normally, I would’ve beaten the sense out of him in the most gentle, dignified way possible. You know… scuff them up without truly embarrassing them, a “humbling” that lets them save face.

But this wasn’t my problem.

I stood silently, waiting for Ding Shan to either scold him or ignore it altogether. A petty part of me wondered which way the old man would swing. I turned to glance at him.

He looked… conflicted.

Ah. So I did have that much weight on him. He wasn’t sure whether to defend me, someone clearly being picked on, or to let the young master vent, preserving the chain of command and political peace. In a world like this, where the privileged were expected to get special treatment, it was an easy choice to defer to Yuen Fu.

I sighed, thinking.

I didn’t have my divine powers anymore. Which meant, if this turned physical, I couldn’t afford to hold back. I’d break something… his pride, or worse. That would make enemies I didn’t need. What would take the least effort here?

I closed my eyes and thought about it.

And then it hit me.

“I just don’t need to hit him too much, right?”

I stepped forward and raised my voice so everyone could hear.

“Since Senior Yuen questions my honor,” I began, drawing the attention of nearby soldiers, “then I only need to prove it with my fists!”

I raised a single hand and pointed at him. “Three strokes. First to land three clean strikes wins. What do you say, Senior?”

Yuen Fu’s eyes widened like I’d slapped him with a fish. He wasn’t expecting me to step out like that. Especially not with confidence. Murmurs broke out across the camp. Some snickers. Others were watching in amusement.

“Oi, Yuen, you gonna back down from a kid?”

“You scared of him or what?”

That did it. Nothing wounded a young master more than being mocked by his inferiors.

I grinned inwardly, feeding the flames. “I’ve seen how Senior Yuen Fu wields his spear with grace—” I gestured grandly toward the weapon on his back “—but I wonder, how do you handle your fists?”

The crowd practically howled. Someone whistled. Another banged a helmet against a rock. Morale had been pitiful ever since the slaughter of farmers and helpless conscripts. They needed something to distract them from the filth and rot and guilt.

Now they had it.

Yuen Fu stepped forward, his eyes narrowing as his pride ignited like dry oil. “If I win,” he declared, “you’ll join us digging graves. Since you find latrines so… comfortable.”

I nodded solemnly. “And if I win, you’ll show me your martial arts, teach me. I’ve always wanted to learn from someone with experience like yours.”

That last line? That hit the ego just right.

Yuen Fu beamed like I’d handed him a sword carved from his own legend. “Gladly,” he said. “I’ll teach you everything I know… after I beat you.”

Perfect.

He had no idea I had baited him into a duel that played to my strength. I didn’t need to overwhelm him. I only needed to outmaneuver him three times.

Three clean hits. It was fast, efficient, and tactical.

Now all I had to do was not humiliate him too badly.

Because let’s be honest, while he was taller and more physically mature, I was still me. Da Wei. Old soul. Veteran of too many lives!

Before the fight began in earnest, we both agreed that this wasn’t going to be some clumsy brawl in full armor. We stripped down to our waists, letting the dented helms and sweat-stained cuirasses fall to the ground with a thud. Our torsos were streaked with dirt and dried blood, but beneath it all, muscle moved with discipline born of training. The other soldiers, sensing the rare entertainment, quickly formed a wide circle around us, hooting and shouting as bets were made with food rations, polishing duties, and even promises of stolen wine. There was an energy in the air, both feral and desperate. These men needed something to believe in, even if just for a moment. And if that something was two half-naked idiots throwing fists in the dusk light, then so be it.

Thus, we fought.

…

..

.

“You’re one slippery brat,” Yuen Fu complained, panting as he reset his stance.

His eyes, once filled with the usual arrogance of a young master, now brimmed with wariness and… a hint of respect?

“Okay, okay, I take it back,” he muttered. “This might be more difficult than I thought.”

I smirked. The crowd around us buzzed with excitement, soldiers who had spent days dragging corpses and digging graves now finally smiling, laughing, and living. It was strange how even a mock duel could breathe life into a field of death.

The first five minutes of our bout had been all reaction and instinct. Each of us tested the other, like chess masters. My fists flew; his legs danced. Every strike I threw was blocked with the barest timing. Every attempt he made to sweep my legs was met with a quick sidestep or a redirect. We moved in circles, as if we had done this a hundred times before.

I managed the first clean hit, a soft flick of my knuckles just under his chin, a strike light enough to count, and hard enough to hurt.

Then he got even.

I hadn’t expected the sweeping leg kick, not from that angle. I barely dodged it, my boots skimming dirt, when his follow-up crescent kick caught me clean in the liver.

I felt that one. Gods above, I felt it.

My entire side convulsed, and a grunt escaped me as I stumbled back.

My pride burned hotter than the pain.

I came back at him with a vengeance, spamming Flash Step, just barely fast enough that the others wouldn’t notice the technique as anything more than nimble footwork. I reappeared to his left and struck, my knuckles burying into his liver this time.

The breath left his lungs in a whoof, and his body dipped.

I almost thought he’d yield.

Then he roared and nearly beheaded me with a high kick.

Only the sheer momentum of ducking saved me. That high kick turned into a roundhouse, and if my shoulder hadn’t twisted at just the right moment, I was sure I would’ve been out cold.

He wasn’t graceful. His punches were average. But his kicks? Those were powerful and precise.

Impressive, really.

I realized then. This world lacked Qi. But because of that, their martial arts had evolved differently. More refined in pure body mechanics, less reliant on mystical enhancements. In the Hollowed World, people floated on spiritual wings. Here? They earned their strength with grit and blood and sweat.

Even with all the inherited memories, the lives I had lived, I could barely keep up. His technique was faster and cleaner. He was, if I had to be honest with myself… probably a star above me in Martial Tempering.

And yet, I was holding my own.

Our blows traded in a flurry of noise and cheers. Neither of us could land the third strike. I wasn’t even sure I wanted to anymore.

Originally, I had planned to lose. That would’ve been easier. No drama. Maybe even build some camaraderie. But…

It would be a shame not to respond to that kind of spirit.

Yuen Fu loved martial arts. That much was clear. And for people like us, the best way to respect someone… was to fight them seriously.

‘Alright,’ I thought. ‘Let’s give him a proper memory.’

He took a stance. Lower than before, one palm stretched outward like a whip waiting to snap. His breathing slowed. His center of gravity dropped.

“Let’s finish this,” he said, quiet and sharp.

I responded in kind, squatting low, one fist forward, my own center grounded.

I sighed inwardly. Most of the martial arts techniques I’d recreated from my Paladin class were too flashy, things that’d make me stand out in all the wrong ways.

I needed subtlety.

He moved.

No… he vanished. One blink and he was gone. He reappeared at my side, faster than before, a crescent kick arcing toward my temple like a guillotine.

My mind acted before thought, born from the instinct of a hundred lives.

I activated Thunderous Smite, condensing the power into the heel of my palm. If I timed it just right, no one would even notice what really happened.

His foot met my palm.

The shock of impact rippled through me like thunder in my bones. I felt the break in his posture. A moment of imbalance.

I followed through.

Using the same palm, I rotated inward, my arm sliding over his knee and under his shoulder, driving into his chest with controlled force. His body left the ground in a half-spin and slammed against the packed dirt.

I knelt, one knee on his chest, raising my fist high as I threw it one final time.

The crowd held their breath.

My fist hovered, just centimeters from his nose.

I smiled.

“Thank you for your instructions, Senior Yuen,” I said, voice calm and clear. “I learned a lot.”

He blinked up at me, stunned… then, slowly, smiled back.

“…You’re welcome,” he said, grinning despite himself. “Damn brat.”

The crowd erupted into cheers, laughter, clapping on backs, and jests tossed in the air. For a moment, in the middle of this cursed battlefield, we weren’t just soldiers.

We were brothers.

And war, for one brief hour, didn’t feel quite so heavy.

That was how I spent my first few months in the war, dueling for pride, digging shit pits, and laughing like fools around dying fires.

By the end of the year, they were all dead.

Except me.