Chen Mo's footsteps slowed.
His crimson eyes narrowed.
His breath hitched.
Ahead, across the wide, crumbling path that curved around the back of the market, he saw something that froze him in place—something that sent a chill down his spine.
Bodies.
Dozens of them.
Hanging.
Tied by rusted chains and crude ropes to a series of crooked iron poles hammered into the ground.
Their necks bent at unnatural angles. Their faces lifeless, expressions twisted between agony and resignation. They swayed in the dusty wind like morbid decorations, their shadows stretching across cracked cobblestone like dark, reaching fingers.
But what truly churned Chen Mo's stomach wasn't just the death. It was who they were.
Not humans.
Demi-humans.
Beastkin with feline ears, matted tails hanging limply behind them.
Goblins—small, green-skinned, their brittle bones poking against skin that hadn't seen food in days.
Ogres—once mighty, now reduced to butchered displays. Arms and legs bound in grotesque positions like trophies of conquest.
Some had signs hung around their necks:
"Thief."
"Rebel."
"Unregistered foreigner."
"Monster-lover."
Chen Mo counted at least two wagons nearby, reinforced with black iron bars and dragged by mechanical beasts shaped like mutated wolves. Inside them were living captives—slaves.
Elves with dirt-caked silver hair, their pointed ears clipped as punishment.
Dwarves—stoic but bloodied—staring blankly into space, their wrists raw from metal cuffs.
Even a young giant—barely a teenager, from the looks of it—chained in place and muzzled like a wild animal.
Every face was a portrait of despair. Every body a testament to cruelty.
And no one cared.
Merchants passed by casually. Guards leaned against walls, chatting with food in hand. A group of children laughed nearby, tossing pebbles at one of the cages.
Chen Mo's body stiffened. His blood turned cold.
It wasn't just the brutality that disturbed him—it was how normalized it was.
This wasn't a secret corner of evil.
This was routine.
This was the empire.
How can people live like this? How can they ignore it?
And then the memories came.
Like a dam bursting behind his eyes, they poured in—visions, echoes, pain.
Wars. Screams. Explosions ripping the sky. Giant banners of red and black flying high over burning cities. Armored legions of humans marching in step, faces blank, blades wet with blood.
Torn forests. Crumbled mountains. Entire villages swallowed in fire.
He stumbled slightly, grabbing a nearby pole for balance as the memory flood dragged him deeper.
This world—this twisted empire—was forged in blood.
The Human Empire.
A sprawling, ruthless force that didn't just conquer—it cleansed. Races were not only beaten—they were erased, enslaved, assimilated, or humiliated. The empire didn't seek coexistence.
It demanded submission.
Xenophobia wasn't just culture—it was doctrine. Written into policy, reinforced through law, and taught from childhood. From a young age, humans in the empire were taught the superiority of their kind. The weakness of others. The need to dominate, for their own good.
Chen Mo saw images of sermons—priests preaching the purity of humanity.
He saw academies where children learned racial hierarchies like math.
He saw marketplaces where non-human slaves were cataloged by race, price, and obedience level.
And it wasn't just humans who hated others.
The world itself—the many realms that coexisted, separated by power and origin—were fractured beyond repair.
Elves resented dwarves for ancestral land disputes.
Giants viewed goblins as vermin.
Beastkin clans warred among themselves over territory and purity of bloodlines.
There were alliances—temporary, shaky, often built from desperation rather than trust.
But more often, there was hate.
Long-standing, generational hate.
The Human Empire had weaponized this. Exploited it. They played races against each other. Used allies when needed. Betrayed them when convenient.
Some dwarf lords sold their own kind to the empire in exchange for territory.
An elven sect known as the "Mirror Thorn" served as informants, betraying rebel hideouts for human gold.
It was all part of the same endless cycle.
And Chen Mo—through this body's memories—could do nothing but watch.
He clenched his fists, trembling.
Anger bubbled in his chest like boiling tar.
His rational mind told him to look away. That he was weak, useless, powerless.
But his heart…
His heart wanted to scream.
He bit his lip hard enough to bleed and finally turned his back on the cages, the corpses, the laughter of guards.
I can't do anything right now, he thought bitterly. But someday…
Someday, he would.
Someday, this would end.
He forced his legs to move again, walking away with a hollow expression and shoulders heavy with helplessness.
The deeper he wandered into the alleys of Zone 937, the quieter the world became.
The marketplace noise faded behind him.
All that remained was the sound of his own footsteps and the faint rustling of the wind weaving through rusted pipes and hanging wires.
Then, suddenly—he stopped.
His foot halted mid-step.
He had turned a corner without thinking. The alley ahead was narrow and shadowed, the buildings leaning in as if to whisper secrets between their broken bricks.
And there—just as he reached the halfway point—
A voice called out.
Low. Sharp. Emotionless.
"Hey, you."
Chen Mo's eyes widened slightly.