Global Villain: I Can Only Become Stronger After I Die

98: Chapter 98 Emperor Yan and Buddha Head”The ruler slights the people’s suffering; the father heeds not the child’s plight. The husband fails to value the wife’s affection, bearing the weight of regret; he finds no place to rest his body between heaven and earth. What use is mere brute strength, when one cannot turn the tide of chaos? Long regrets in life flow like the eastern river; endless sorrows are impossible to recount.”

The moon in the sky slowly faded, and the sun poked its head out, inch by inch, from the far side of the horizon.

At first, it was merely a faint golden glow, like the shy smile of a young girl, flickering in and out of sight.

But gradually, the light grew stronger, just like the hope in people’s hearts, intensifying with each passing moment.

Today, the Imperial Capital welcomed a middle-aged man with a haggard complexion.

Although his face was etched with exhaustion, his posture remained as upright as a pine, and he possessed an imposing air.

It was evident that this middle-aged man’s identity was not simple.

He walked aimlessly through the Imperial Capital, every step appearing heavy and sluggish.

He would occasionally look up at the sky, then lower his head to stare at the blood-stained flagstones beneath his feet.

In a daze, he felt as if he had returned to the past.

He saw the Imperial Capital filled with laughter and joy, with the sounds of children playing in every street and alley.

He saw the orderly Imperial Capital, where shops were bustling, pedestrians came and went, and everything was in perfect order.

Most importantly, he saw the Imperial Capital as it once was: the towering city walls undamaged, the magnificent palaces not yet dilapidated, and the streets and alleys not yet desolate.

For some reason, a line of clear tears slowly traced down his face.

”The city is full of people, yet not a soul is to be seen...”

These words, like a gentle breeze, drifted through the alleys and streets, all the way into the Imperial City.

If any citizen of the Great Zhou were present, they would recognize this person as the long-vanished Flame Emperor.

He was also the 12th emperor of the Great Zhou—Zhong Chusheng.

Suddenly, as if remembering something, Zhong Chusheng’s expression changed drastically, and he hurriedly took flight toward the Imperial City.

His figure was like a bolt of lightning, instantly cutting through the sky.

”Are you there? Are you there?”

Harboring this question, Zhong Chusheng quickly arrived at the dilapidated gate of the Imperial City.

The once prosperous and magnificent Imperial City was now nothing but broken walls and ruins, scarred and devastated.

Looking at this scene, both familiar and strange, a sharp pain pierced his heart.

He paid no heed to anything else and strode quickly toward the depths of the city.

Not long after, Zhong Chusheng arrived at the site where Qin Xiaogan and The Old Monk had battled.

But here, there was only a tightly shut, hideous gate. It seemed to come from the abyss of the Nine Underworlds, emitting a hair-raising, eerie green light.

The light flickered like a snake’s tongue, giving off an extremely dangerous feeling.

Zhong Chusheng stared at the gate before him, his heart tightening.

”The Gate of the Dead World...”

He dared not approach the gate; he knew well what lay behind it.

It was endless darkness and boundless despair, an abyss capable of devouring everything.

Zhong Chusheng scanned his surroundings, his gaze eager and focused, as if he did not want to miss a single corner.

Alas.

On this desolate land, the person he longed to see would never appear again.

His eyes grew increasingly dim.

Following this, Zhong Chusheng slowly closed his eyes. Two lines of clear tears welled up, streaming down his cheeks and dripping onto his clenched fists.

The 17th year of Anhe. Late autumn.

In Yang City, on Ni-Ping Street.

A ragged monk held a chicken leg tightly in one hand, while his other hand held onto a similarly ragged little boy.

Although their clothes were tattered and torn, fortunately, their faces were reasonably clean.

They walked slowly along the bustling street, while the people around them cast strange looks their way.

The monk, however, did not care in the least. From time to time, he would lower his head to chat and laugh with the little boy, who would look up and reveal an innocent, guileless smile.

”Little Chusheng, in a little while, you’ll be able to see Big Chusheng. Aren’t you happy?”

”Is Big Chusheng my father?”

”Amitabha, well said, well said. You should call him Royal Father.”

Suddenly, the little boy stopped walking, his eyes fixed straight on a candied hawthorn stall.

Seeing this, the monk smiled slightly, took a few copper coins from his robes, bought a skewer of candied hawthorns, and handed it to the little boy.

The little boy happily took it, bit into the candied hawthorn, and his face overflowed with a look of satisfaction.

”The Old Monk, when I see my... my Royal Father, will I have to part from you?”

Upon hearing this, the monk gently stroked Zhong Chusheng’s head and said with a gentle gaze: ”How could this poor monk bear to part with Little Chusheng?”

The little boy handed the crystal-clear candied hawthorn skewer in his hand to the monk and said with a very serious face: ”Then let’s hook pinkies and promise; one hundred years, no changing allowed.”

The monk quickly finished gnawing the chicken leg in his hand, reached out to take the candied hawthorn, took a big bite, and smiled contentedly: ”So... sweet.”

”The Old Monk, your ability to lie is even more profound than your Buddhist teachings.”

Zhong Chusheng’s eyes were slightly unfocused, and his whole being seemed to have fallen into an endless void.

”I originally wanted to introduce you to that roast chicken shop at the East Gate of the Imperial Capital. It was roasted just right; you certainly would have liked it.”

”But... the roast chicken shop is gone, and you... are gone too.”

”Then... who will I buy roast chicken for from now on?”

His voice carried a trace of trembling, as if every word exhausted all the strength in his body.

Zhong Chusheng, like a walking corpse, wandered lifelessly through the dilapidated Imperial City.

”You always said I was the executioner of this era, capable of slaying the Emperor.”

”Who am I to deserve such a title?!”

Zhong Chusheng roared at the sky, his face filled with pain and unwillingness.

”An emperor who hides behind his own country and people to pursue that illusory opportunity.” His eyes were filled with anger and disdain, every word seeming to be squeezed out from between his teeth.

”Such an emperor... deserves to be sliced into a thousand pieces; death is too good for him!”

”Hahahaha.”

Zhong Chusheng laughed madly, the sound echoing through the empty Imperial City, appearing exceptionally shrill and miserable.

But soon, he collapsed powerlessly onto the ground, staring at the broken walls and ruins before him, his face blank, like a statue that had lost its soul.

The once-prosperous Imperial City was now nothing but desolation. The afterglow of the setting sun shone upon him, yet it could not illuminate the despair in his eyes.

The ruler who does not take the world’s people as his priority, the father who does not worry for his child’s life, the husband who does not value his wife’s affection—between heaven and earth, there is no place for me to rest. Possessing brute strength, yet lacking the power to turn the tide, from this moment on, the regrets of life flow long like the eastern river.

In the empty and desolate Imperial City, the sobbing of a middle-aged man rang out.

Long, and lingering...