The Beloved Guide Was Forced in a Love-Rival Shura Field - Chapter 103

It was a young female doctor, carrying a medical kit, weaving through the crowd to treat the wounded.

Exhausted, she stumbled slightly and looked up to catch her breath—but the moment her eyes lifted, they froze.

What did she see?

Amidst the towering flames and rolling, dense smoke.

Amidst the backdrop of countless wails and cries.

A boy stood there, motionless.

He wore an exaggeratedly large black cloak, clearly belonging to a top-ranking officer, which made his slender, fragile frame look even more delicate, as if a gust of wind could knock him over.

His tousled silver hair, illuminated by the flickering firelight, seemed coated with a layer of flowing, gentle moonlight, each strand glowing softly.

He wore no protective gear, and his exquisitely delicate, almost unreal face was fully exposed to the hazy, smoke-filled air.

Pure.

Too pure.

So pure that he seemed to belong nowhere in this world tainted by blood and ash.

Especially his eyes.

A pair of dreamlike, iridescent purple eyes.

In those eyes, there was none of the fear, panic, or pity a normal person would feel in this scene.

Instead… there was something deeper.

A kind of compassion that seemed to see through all suffering—a born, godlike mercy.

He simply stood there, silently observing everything before him. The firelight danced in his eyes, yet it could not ignite a single trace of worldly emotion, leaving only a bottomless, gentle sorrow.

The female doctor’s breath caught.

Her medical kit clattered to the ground, scattering its contents—medications and bandages—but she didn’t notice.

She simply stared, slack-jawed, at the boy.

Her mind went blank.

Was this a hallucination?

Was it fatigue and despair playing tricks on her?

Why… was she seeing a being that seemed to have stepped out of a myth?

Her loss of composure quickly drew attention.

More and more people followed her gaze.

A man leaning against a wall, missing an entire arm, waiting to die.

A girl with deep, bone-revealing cuts on her face, wailing uncontrollably.

A middle-aged person who had just dug out the body of a loved one from the rubble, their eyes hollow and numb.

One after another…

All eyes turned to the silver-haired, purple-eyed boy standing at the border between chaos and order.

The crying gradually lessened.

The screaming gradually faded.

The noisy, chaotic, maddening scene slowly cooled into a strange, spreading silence.

It was as if an invisible hand had clamped around their throats, leaving them staring, dumbfounded, at a presence that should not exist there.

Who was he?

How did he get here?

And who were those ominous black-clad figures behind him?

Countless questions swirled in their minds, but more than anything, there was a feeling that was indescribable, absurd, shocking, almost unreal.

Like a painting depicting hell, and at its very center, suddenly, a streak of the purest, brightest moonlight.

So incongruous.

Yet… so beautiful it made the heart quiver.

“Wh… who is that…”

A weak voice sounded, uncertain, from within the crowd.

“He… looks… like the one we saw on the news before…”

“The Moon God…”

Someone, in a whisper like a dream, muttered the words.

Like a stone dropped into still water, it caused an immediate, massive ripple.

“The Moon God!”

“It’s the Moon God! Truly, it’s the Moon God himself!”

“Oh my god! I’m not dreaming, right? The Moon God has come to save us!”

“Waaah… Moon God…”

The oppressive, dead silence erupted—but this time, not from fear or despair, but from sudden, disbelieving ecstasy!

They had all seen that video.

The boy hailed as the “Empire’s Moon God,” who, on the border battlefield, calmed the insect tide with his song and saved hundreds of thousands of soldiers.

The one protected simultaneously by the Marshal and the Second Prince—a being from legend!

They had thought he was a distant, untouchable symbol, worshipped at the highest pinnacle.

They never imagined that one day, this living deity would descend before the most humble, helpless mortals.

Descending upon this hell of fire and death!

Thud!

The young mother clutching her dead child was the first to kneel.

Her cloudy, tear-blurred eyes erupted with a nearly insane, desperate hope, grasping the last straw of salvation.

Thud! Thud!

Then the second, the third…

Hundreds, thousands of people, regardless of their injuries or pain, were driven by an invisible force, kneeling slowly, reverently, in the direction of the boy.

They looked at him like parched travelers glimpsing an oasis in the desert.

They looked at him like prisoners in boundless darkness seeing a shaft of heavenly light.

It was no longer the gaze of heroes being revered.

It was the gaze of people beholding the one living god walking among mortals.

Ning Ning was utterly shaken by the scene before him.

He could feel it.

He could clearly feel it.

Hundreds, thousands of mixed emotions—pain, despair, prayers, and frenzied faith—poured over him like a tidal wave, almost drowning his small frame completely.

This force was heavier, more terrifying than any enemy he had ever faced.

He instinctively wanted to retreat, but his feet seemed rooted.

He could not step back.

He was the “Moon God.”

He was their… last hope.

Under the watchful eyes of all, with the tense aura of his “guardians” behind him, Ning Ning slowly made a gesture.

He slid the heavy cloak, symbolizing the Marshal’s absolute protection, off his frail shoulders and handed it to one of the “guardians” behind him.

Now, he wore only a thin white shirt, his delicate outline casting a fragile shadow in the firelight.

The gesture was a silent declaration.

He was not here to be worshipped.

He was here to stand with them.

Facing everyone’s eyes, facing the scorching heat, he stepped forward.

That step crushed the rubble beneath him.

And stepped into the hearts of all the desperate.

The crowd held a deathly silence, holding their breath as they watched their god take each step toward the epicenter of suffering.

What would he do?

What could he do?

Ning Ning looked up at the mother kneeling at the front, her child lost, her purple eyes reflecting the flickering firelight and endless grief.

Then, slowly, he raised his hand.

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