When the fierce gale stirred up by Westheid gradually subsided, a sight that rendered everyone speechless unfolded before them:
The once-gray, scorched plain was now smeared with a thin layer of gore. Shattered limbs and mangled fragments were scattered everywhere. The thick stench of blood assaulted the senses, a scene straight out of Purgatory.
The good news, however, was that the Qinghui Army likely wouldn't need to clean up the battlefield. The Dragon Thunder was gradually consuming the mangled corpses, slowly but resolutely, causing every speck of flesh and bone to dissipate like ash.
Beneath the clear sky, countless crimson embers, stirred up from the desolate plain by the storm's aftershocks, drifted chaotically through the air before scattering into lightless dust.
The architect of this scene was half-kneeling atop a small hill built from Demon corpses, leaning on his sword with his head bowed, gasping for breath.
