Song Cheng lay on the ground covered in blood, his eyes red, his backside sliding backward, his hand trembling, and his face bloodless as he stared at the god of slaughter before him.
From the moment the ambush was discovered until now, his people were cut down like chives by a group of swiftly emerging black-clad assailants, slaughtered with the sword, leaving none alive.
Now, could even he not avoid this fate?
"Han, Han... pfft!" Song Cheng turned his head sideways and spat out a mouthful of blood, his complexion growing increasingly pale, resembling the color of earth, as he looked on in terror at the person before him.
In front of him stood a person clad in red like a Shaven Rakshasa, looking down at him from above, raising their hand as another streak of sword light flashed past.
The hand holding Song Cheng's sword ached, as the tendons in his hand were ruthlessly severed.
