Rebirth of a Mercenary: The Ace Mercenary Forced to Be the Beloved of the Group

When Bai Ye woke up again, she felt great.

The feeling was hard to describe—it wasn't the ordinary feeling of being well-rested or well-rested; it was as if his entire being had been transformed, inside and out. All the pain disappeared: the gunshot wound in his abdomen, the whip marks on his back, the broken arms and legs, the fingertips with their nails pulled out—all those wounds that had tormented him for nearly half a month were smoothed out as if by an invisible hand.

He sat up, looked down at himself, and found that his clothes had been changed—no longer the tattered T-shirt soaked in blood and sewage, but a clean gray short-sleeved shirt, somewhat oversized, but dry and soft. The chains on his wrists were gone; the handcuffs had been removed, leaving only a ring of scabbed, dark red marks on his skin.

He flexed his wrists, the joints making a soft cracking sound. He stretched his neck, the cervical vertebrae stretching out one by one, like the aching yet exhilarating feeling of getting up for the first time after lying in bed for too long.

Then he looked down at his left arm—the unnatural twist at the elbow was still there, and he could feel the dislocated bone ridge under the swollen skin. He reached out his right hand, grasped his left forearm, took a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and then twisted it with a sudden burst of strength.

A crisp, muffled crack as bones snapped back into place echoed in the quiet room, sending a cold sweat instantly beading on his forehead. But he didn't utter a sound; he simply closed his eyes for a moment, waiting for the tearing pain to subside from his joint.

He moved his left arm; the soreness in his elbow was still there, but the bone had returned to its proper position, and his fingers could bend and straighten.

He bent down to reach for his right leg. The swelling at his knee was worse than that at his arm, and his entire leg, from thigh to calf, was covered in bluish-purple bruises, like an iron pipe that had been twisted over.

He gripped his knees with both hands, took a deep breath, and then pulled and twisted sharply. The sound of the dislocated bones realigning was dull and crisp, causing him to arch his back in pain, his forehead hitting the ground, his lips bitten until they turned white. After a few seconds, he straightened up, moved his right knee, and although it was still slightly sore, at least he could stand.

Bai Ye stood up from the ground, his bare feet touching the cement floor. He looked around and found himself locked in a room much cleaner than the water dungeon he had been in before—the walls were painted white, there was a narrow window letting in the afternoon light, the floor was covered with worn-out tiles, and there was a low stool and a table in the corner.

He walked to the door, pushed it open, and it opened. There was no lock. The light that seeped in through the crack was much brighter than the fluorescent light in the water dungeon, carrying a white hue that made him squint slightly.

He stood sideways by the door, pressed himself against the wall, and glanced outside. The corridor was empty, with only a brighter light shining through the corner at the end.

Bai Ye walked out.

He encountered his first person at the corner of the corridor. The man was leaning against the wall smoking. Hearing footsteps, he turned his head, but before he could see who it was, Bai Ye was already right in front of him.

His movements as he drew the dagger from the man's waist were fluid and swift—his left hand gripped the man's wrist, his right hand drew the blade, and with a backhand slash, the blade sliced ​​across the man's neck. As the man clutched his throat and fell, blood and foam were still bubbling from his mouth, and his pupils dilated after a few brief seconds of twitching.

Bai Ye gripped the knife and continued walking forward.

The second person turned around the corner, holding a bowl of noodles. When he saw Bai Ye, he was stunned for a moment, and the bowl slipped from his hand and smashed on the ground into several pieces.

He opened his mouth to shout, but Bai Ye had already rushed in front of him, the tip of the knife piercing his jaw from bottom to top, penetrating the base of his skull. The man went limp before he could even utter a sound. A small patch of warm water, containing noodle soup and broken porcelain shards, spread out at Bai Ye's feet. He stepped over it without bowing his head.

The third, fourth, and fifth people appeared one after another in the corridor, like a string of beads with a broken string, and were bumped into by Bai Ye.

Some were stabbed in the back by a knife as they turned around, some had their wrist tendons severed while trying to draw their guns, and some had their throats slit before they could even utter their first cry.

Bai Ye's steps never stopped, one slash after another, as if driven by some extremely precise gears, the strikes were accurate and decisive, each slash was fatal, without any unnecessary tremors.

Blood splattered on his face, arms, and gray short-sleeved shirt, leaving dark, damp stains on the fabric. He didn't wipe it away, nor did he blink; he simply stepped over the fallen bodies and continued walking forward.

He fought his way to the main courtyard.

The afternoon sun filled the entire courtyard, making the pebbles on the ground slightly hot.

When Bai Ye walked out from the end of the corridor, he was covered in blood. His gray short-sleeved shirt was soaked through and turned dark red and black. Even his face was stained with bloodstains from the splattering blood.

His right hand gripped a dagger, blood still trickling down the blade, dripping onto the ground and leaving tiny dark marks in the sunlight. His steps were unhurried, each step firm and solid, his bare feet treading on warm gravel and dried bloodstains, as if walking on a path he should have already traversed long ago.

Several attendants and guards stood in the main courtyard. They were all stunned when they saw Bai Ye—the blood-covered boy seemed to have emerged from the blood mist out of thin air. Against the strong afternoon light, his features were indistinct, and all that could be seen was the still-dripping blood knife in his hand.

Some people instinctively took a half step back, some opened their mouths as if to shout but could not make a sound, and one person reacted quickly, turning around and running towards the viper's room to report the news.

Bai Ye did not stop him.

He walked across the gravel floor of the main courtyard, past the attendants who stood frozen in place, and pushed open the door to Viper's room.

Viper was leaning against the sofa by the window, holding a half-finished cup of tea.

He heard the door open and looked up. When he saw Bai Ye, his hand holding the teacup froze in mid-air for a moment. His gaze moved from Bai Ye's blood-stained face to his blood-soaked gray short-sleeved shirt, and then to the still-dripping dagger in his hand. His brows furrowed slightly.

"How did you get out?"

Bai Ye stood at the doorway, the afternoon sunlight streaming in from behind him, outlining his blood-soaked silhouette with a dark golden edge.

His voice wasn't loud, but every word carried a cold, hard, and resolute quality that had been repeatedly tempered. He raised the knife in his hand, and a drop of blood on the blade drew a thin arc in the air before landing on the dark brown carpet, spreading into a small dot.

"How you got out is not important," he said. "What's important is that your death is near."