Aleku fell to the ground, his ears deaf with great vertigo, his eyes staring at the stars, his eyes staring blankly ahead, and his whole body was unconscious.

In the thick smoke, a pair of women's military boots stepped on the broken sand and gravel on the ground and walked towards him, step by step as if the call of death, and he could only helplessly watch the other party get closer and closer, closer and closer, and finally stopped in front of his eyes.

"It's over, Aleku."

A clear female voice sounded above him.

Three seconds later.

[Sandhurst Alekwu is out! ] 】

[Sandhurst is all out, the game is over, there are two remaining in the First Military Academy of the Empire, one remaining in North Carnoi, and the First Military Academy of the Empire wins! ] 】

Arafa's electronic voice sounded for the last time in the match, announcing the winner of the seven-day sniper contest.

In the live broadcast room, the two hosts announced the result in an excited tone, and all the staff and the audience gave warm applause.

In front of the screen, countless fans and supporters of the First Military Academy players screamed, cheered, and ecstatic at this great happiness. There were also countless supporters of other teams who lamented and wept.

Many people have the same thing in their minds-

The First Military Academy of the Empire, the ace military school, has once again succeeded in continuing its glory!!

It was also in this competition that people deeply remembered the young faces of several members of the shooting team of the First Military Academy of the Empire.

Especially the girl who reversed the situation at the last moment and defended the honor of the First Army with an unexpected attack, her bright and beautiful eyes with a slight smile were inadvertently engraved into the minds of many people.

Her name is Chen Mengmeng.

(End of volume)

I hope you read the rest of the story.

I'm sorry to everyone. At this point in the story, I can't write anymore for the time being.

Major depressive disorder and moderate anxiety disorder, I've been battling it for three years. The etiology is complex and has been accumulated over more than ten years, so I won't talk about it here.

I know this will be very disappointing for so many friends who are still supporting me, as a reader friend commented today, just don't break the update, but I really don't know what to do. I can't even do that anymore.

Now I don't have the ability to respond to anyone's expectations of me, even my own expectation of living a normal life.

It's 3:10 a.m., and I still can't sleep, staring at the ceiling of my room and crying silently like staring at my boring and failed life.

Because of this disease, my excellent memory deteriorated rapidly, I lost my decent job, and I became afraid of going out from an outgoing and optimistic person.

It's been three years, three years of psychotropic drugs, and I thought I had beaten it. But no, it's back.

In the past half month, its signs have been obvious.

When the disease was severe, I had a stupor, and I couldn't even lift my arms and turn over, so I could only move my fingers. Not to mention eating, bathing, and dressing for a normal person.

When it was mild, it was crazy crying, splitting headaches, and nausea.

I hate myself like this, I hate this life.

It's like watching a rotten ship being swallowed up little by little by the waves.

I wanted to write, but I couldn't organize the language as smoothly as I used to, and I couldn't grasp the words that floated before my eyes. That's why I'm writing so painfully and slowly.

I wanted to get up and cook, but I didn't even have the strength to go out and buy groceries.

I'm so desperate, really desperate.

I feel like a wretch, a wreck, useless to society. A wasted person who is incapable of living normally like an ordinary person.

Because of the pathological changes in brain hormones, I couldn't connect with the world. To be precise, it is to look at the world and feel that everything is illusory. I myself am like a rootless duckweed that disperses when the wind blows.

One afternoon in June, I cried for three hours in my own home, seriously thinking about taking all my remaining pills to a clean beach and getting rid of everything, including myself. (This is a wrong idea!) Extremely wrong! Negative textbook! Children must not learn from me! ）

At that moment, I even had a pathological thought that I wouldn't have to face the disappointment of my readers, because I didn't exist anymore.

Crazy, right? But it was what I really thought when I got sick.

When this disease strikes, there will be a lot of thoughts in your head that don't belong to you, and they will control you.

That day, at the last moment of my loss of mind, I called my doctor, and she and my family and friends who I couldn't let go of for so many times saved me.

Then, the doctor told me to stop writing, you're like this, what do you want to do? You know that your illness has returned.

yes, I'm like this, what else do I want?

But what did I think? I don't dare to expect to be a well-known author, nor do I expect to make a lot of money, I just want to live a life where ordinary people can talk, laugh and feel even a little bit of happiness.

I just want to do something I like, I want to earn a little pocket money, I want to live a normal and happy life, and I want to finish this story in my heart.

Why can't I do anything?

I'm not reconciled. And then I wrote to this day.

But that can only be done today.

It's not that I don't want to, but I can't do it.

I sat at my computer desk for eight hours and could only type a complete sentence of 500 words. Halfway through the battle, the "life or death" question lasted for 800 rounds, and ended with me falling to the floor at home and crying for an hour.

Most of my text is coded at night. Because at night, anxiety takes over. It keeps me awake, has a splitting headache, and is extremely excited trying to do a lot of things I didn't finish during the day.

Even now.

A person who struggles with "being alive" every day really doesn't know how to continue writing this book, which is expected to take more than a million words to finish.

It's become an inaccomplishable task for me now.

If I continue to write, I'm really afraid that my own people won't be able to write it.

I'm really unwilling, this is a world that I have spent nearly half a year constructing, and I have not finished depicting it, but I am about to leave the scene in a hurry.

I met the cutest group of readers in the world who were so tolerant and encouraging to me as a newcomer, and I didn't respond to them to the end.

Unwilling, really unwilling.

For three years, this disease destroyed and took away so much of my stuff. He beat me all over my body, and I was bruised, and my body was completely skinless. Again and again, it knocked me to the brink of giving up.

It wants me to throw in the towel. But I can't.

I have to keep fighting, I want to keep living, I love the world.

I really like to listen to Mika Nakajima's "Once I Thought About a Hundred", and every lyric in it is my personal feeling. It has accompanied me through many of my darkest moments.

There is a sentence in it that I like: People who always think about death must be living too seriously.

Finally, I apologize to you.

May you all be surrounded by the beauty of the world, away from sickness and sorrow, and live happily and happily.

Hopefully we'll see you again. At that time, I must have completely defeated the black dog of depression and regained control of my life.

Love, thank you, bless you.