Well? Just like that, tens of thousands of Martial Guards lay dead on the ground. Their blood soaked the earth, pooling into tiny streams.
Hua Ying stared with wide eyes, gasping for breath. With each charge, his men—the Iron-blooded Elites who had swept through ten countries—fell one after another, like dolls under the Grim Reaper's scythe.
"Now, who's the trash? Hm?!"
Chen Yang withdrew his gaze from Hua Ying. He looked up, surveying the signal fires and smoke that choked the battlefield, where cries of battle shook the heavens. There was only one choice: kill or be killed. There was no third path.
Hua Ying stood disheveled in the wind and snow, his hair standing on end as if his scalp might tear away. An extreme terror filled his heart. In a one-on-one fight, he could probably kill me with a single finger. And as for leading troops in battle... didn't this one-sided slaughter prove everything?
