Leave no one alive.
The echo lingered, deathly silent.
The words, "My people did not die in vain," struck Yang Hu, Wei Dayong, and others deeply.
Indeed, how could they die in vain?
Crack!!
One by one, fists clenched tightly, murderous intent surging like a tide.
On the opposite bank, Yin Shu was weak and limp, his eyes tearing with rage.
He never dreamed that his words would become a prophecy.
This Riverside of Yonggui was not a place to earn fame and fortune, but a burial ground.
Along with him, the commander, over five hundred thousand people would be buried in this vast snowfield.
And for Chen Yang.
This battle of the weak overcoming the strong, celebrated by future generations, also branded him as the Supreme Martial Commander with a label he could never shake off.
God of Death!
A national war.
Always marked by bloodshed.
