Days blurred together in the blood sea, each one bleeding into the next until time itself lost meaning. Long Chen killed endlessly, and the black sword in his hands rose and fell in an endless rhythm that never stopped, never wavered, each strike ending a life while each death fed the red patterns spreading across his skin like living tattoos.
He'd stopped counting after the first thousand soldiers fell beneath his blade, because the numbers no longer mattered when the army seemed infinite and the killing never ended.
The soldiers kept coming in waves that crashed against him like a crimson tide, millions of them charging forward with their half-rendered faces and incomplete armor, weapons raised high while those blank void-eyes stared without truly seeing anything at all. Long Chen cut them down with mechanical precision, his movements flowing from one kill to the next without pause or hesitation.
