Dozens of bandits were simultaneously dismembered. Halberds were sheared in half. Spells were severed mid-cast as the cultivators channeling them were abruptly silenced.
Blood sprayed across the cobblestones, painting the cavern floor in a horrific, abstract mosaic.
"No survivors," Yichen ordered his shadow guards, his voice carrying over the screams.
He walked into the fray, his torn peach dress fluttering around his boots. He moved with the grace of a dancer, flicking his fingers, sending invisible waves of decapitating force through the remaining bandit ranks.
He was a maestro conducting a symphony of slaughter, fueled entirely by the petty, burning humiliation of having worn travel pillows as breasts.
He didn't spare anyone.
The rogue cultivators who tried to flee were caught in the web and dragged back.
And those who begged for mercy were silenced before the words could leave their lips.
