Once, someone said that murderers often can’t stop their killing spree once they’ve gone “blood red” with rage, slaying everyone in their path. In such a state, they might even harm innocent people nearby. That’s exactly what Zhang Qiming was experiencing now. His eyes were bloodshot, and as he approached the bandit leader with his dull-edged blade, his night attire was a deep, dark red, stiff with dried blood.

A child in the old man’s arms saw Zhang’s murderous gaze and began crying in terror. The bandit leader, collapsed on the ground, had already been scared senseless by the horrific screams echoing from the forest all night. “S-stay back!” he stammered. “I told you, stay back! I’ve got a gun!”

Desperately trying to seem brave, the bandit leader grabbed the child and held him as a shield, yet Zhang’s relentless steps continued, completely unfazed.

“Damn it, I’ll fight you!” The bandit leader, though merely a rogue soldier, had a bit of courage left. He kicked the child aside and fired his musket at Zhang. Smoke wafted from the gun’s barrel as he stared in disbelief, muttering, “Did... did I hit him?”

Zhang, looking every bit like the grim reaper, glanced at his arm where blood was now flowing from a gunshot wound. “You deserve to die!” he growled. With a fierce shout, Zhang charged forward and swung his blade down on the bandit leader. The dull blade crushed through his skull with a sickening crunch, splattering brain matter and blood around like smashed watermelon.

Nearby, the child and the old man were sprayed with blood, paralyzed with fear. Moments ago, they’d thought Zhang was some celestial being, but now they realized he was more like the Lord of Death himself.

“Great warrior, spare us!” the old man cried, kneeling and begging. “My grandson is still young—please have mercy!”

Seeing that Zhang still hadn’t put down his weapon, the old man realized something was wrong. He knelt down and began kowtowing repeatedly. The sound of his head hitting the ground seemed to bring Zhang back to his senses, and his expression softened. “What... what’s happened to me?”

Helping the old man to his feet, Zhang stared, stunned, at the blood covering his entire body.

“Little deity, you went blood-red in a killing frenzy!” the old man said, trembling and wetting himself again from fear, though it was hardly noticeable amid all the gore on the ground.

“Damn…” Zhang muttered, horrified by his actions and overwhelmed with exhaustion. He’d killed all night without stopping, sustained only by his irrational rage. Fortunately, his wound wasn’t fatal, as the musket blast lacked the power to be truly deadly unless it struck a vital area. Zhang quickly wrapped the wound on his arm and sat cross-legged to regulate his breathing using a basic Qi technique passed down in his family. Though not highly refined, it was useful for maintaining focus during travel.

“I allowed bloodlust to cloud my mind. If that bandit leader had better weapons, I’d be dead,” he thought while recovering. “I need to plan carefully and fully understand the rewards the system gives me, or I’ll just become a reckless brute. I used to be an ordinary person, not cut out for battle. The sudden rush of strength was bound to lead me astray.”

After fifteen minutes of meditation, he had regained a portion of his strength, though his stomach now growled with hunger.

“Little deity, you must be hungry. Come, come back to the village with us,” the old man offered. “We may be poor, but we still have food for you.”

“Grandpa, we have no food! Yesterday, we had to eat tree bark,” the child blurted, innocent and honest. Embarrassed, the old man was about to reprimand him when Zhang stopped him.

Patting the child’s head and calming the flustered old man, Zhang felt a warmth inside. Despite the chaos and banditry around them, people like this old man remained kind and genuine. “No rush,” Zhang reassured him. “Grandpa, do you know where these bandits kept their loot?”

“Loot? What’s that?”

The old man, utterly confused by the term, looked lost.

“Oh, I mean their stash of valuables.”

“Ah! I know where that is. They took me and their plunder to the same room—it’s over there,” the old man replied, pointing to a small house set apart from the others.

“Let’s go! It’s time to reclaim what they stole from you!”

The stash room turned out to have an inner and outer section. A large armchair covered in a tiger pelt sat in the outer room—apparently, the bandit leader fancied himself a forest hero.

The inner room left the old man wide-eyed. “So much food! So many sacks of grain!” Stacked like a warehouse, the room held hundreds of bags of wheat, likely over ten thousand pounds.

The old man nearly wept with joy, saying, “I could make so many loaves with this! If I eat two a day, I don’t even need water!”

The old man’s words made Zhang’s heart ache—what kind of world was this, where even a simple meal was a luxury?

“Grandpa, you can eat as many loaves as you want today; all this grain is yours,” Zhang said.

“Are you sure, little deity?” The old man’s eyes sparkled with hope.

“Of course,” Zhang assured him, but added, “Just hurry, though. My friends should be finishing up soon.”

The old man, ecstatic, was about to gather the grain himself when he hesitated, realizing Zhang was still there. Bowing, he said, “Little deity, you take it first. You earned it.”

“It’s all yours, Grandpa. You farmed it in the first place.”

For Zhang, these grains held little value. His family had plenty of fertile land and resources, and he could hardly carry all this away by himself. His real interest lay in the chest of silver coins and gold bars the bandit leader had stashed in a neighboring room, which he’d already added to his system’s inventory.

Beaming, the old man rushed off, though he quickly came back to his senses, saying, “I’ll gather the family, little deity. The grain won’t run away now that the bandits are gone, thanks to you.”