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Sandra coldly glare at the frantic “scholar,” not responding.

Lanny Taylor lowered her head, using this action to mask the shock of her mind and the inexplicable fear and hatred that had arisen.

Perhaps, it’s because like affects like?

So, in the eyes of these “young masters” and “young ladies” of various top wizard organizations, their own or other family’s young genius wizards could be treated like goods, freely traded.

Even if Sandra had just been silent and had even glared at him coldly.

However, after staying close to Sandra for nearly half a year, Lanny had figured out some of Sandra’s habits and subtle expressions.

Lanny was sure that Sandra had just subconsciously considered whether it would be worthwhile to sell Link Grande!

In that case, when would she herself also be discussed like a piece of merchandise, to be bought and sold?

The competition world.

Link glanced around the battlefield and at the several direct-line members who had experienced their first real kills in life, and ordered indifferently, “Quickly clean up the battlefield and move immediately.”

After dropping this sentence, Link walked towards Jasmine’s position and said to Betty, who was somewhat unnaturally, “You go clean up the battlefield, um…you take care of the corpses.”

“Yes, boss.”

Betty’s face was slightly pale, but she agreed without hesitation.

She had seen corpses before, and she had battled, and she had seen casualties.

It’s just that she had never directly faced a battlefield as bloody as this one before.

“Why bother? Let her adapt gradually.”

As Betty, holding back revulsion, began to stack body parts for burning or burial, Jasmine couldn’t help but ask.

She felt that Link’s just forcing Betty to confront blood and cruelty was too cold.

She didn’t very much agree with this approach.

Link looked up at the three “suns” that spanned the sky in this desolate world, and explained in a low voice, “My intuition tells me that if we don’t be more decisive in killing, we’ll be in big trouble. We don’t have much time for her to adapt slowly. They need to improve as quickly as possible in order not to hold me back.”

He stopped at that, not finishing his sentence.

Jasmine, knowing that Link’s hunches were often right, decided not to say anything more.

She thought for a moment, then took the initiative to go down and help the others clean up the battlefield.

It wasn’t much later when the battlefield was cleaned up.

“Freedom in Everything” set off, heading for the center of the desolate world designated by Link.

The safe zone was gradually shrinking, certainly from the outside in.

Heading to the center wouldn’t be a mistake.

“Link, there’s something I think you need to know.”

In the silent march, Jasmine suddenly spoke in a very complex tone.

She was in charge of the team’s logistics.

The spoils of war from the battlefield would naturally be sorted out by her.

In a diary that she didn’t know who wrote, Jasmine found a message that was slightly related to her and Link.

“What is it?”

Link took a step forward to walk side by side with Jasmine.

Since the silence had been broken, he simply asked directly instead of using “telepathy.”

“Read it for yourself.”

Jasmine handed him over the opened diary.

Link took it, read it, and immediately fell silent, his mood complex.

The owner of the diary complained in it:

The Flame and Metal Trade Society served only a few core families, ordinary members had no human rights, being ruthlessly exploited and unable to preserve their integrity.

In his generation alone, he didn’t know how many people couldn’t escape the claws of the she-devil Verna Morrison.

If one wasn’t drained dry, one was burned to death.

His only good friend from his apprentice years, Jiminy Hendrix, bit the bullet and endured for two years but still couldn’t withstand the omnipresent pressure.

He eventually surrendered and was burned to death, not even ashes left behind.

He sent a letter to a person named Christina in Shadow City as per Jiminy’s arrangements made in case something happened, then gave Jiminy a nominal burial.

The last part of the diary entry was a lament about life’s fate:

“We are born like weeds, trampled upon by others.”

“Even in death, we will be turned to ashes.”

“How will I die?”

“Where will I die?”