Cursing voices, pathological fanatical laughter, seeking thrills in playful banter.
The sword cultivator Proxy Agent, maintaining ineffective slaughter, witnessed various fragmented scenes here. The natives here have problems and yet don't have problems.
They are madmen, yet also normal people, two contradictory states manifested simultaneously.
Bam——
A student dressed in high school attire collided with his sword net and turned into a blood mist.
A shattered piece of skin floated past his eye, without any distortion from fear.
The surroundings remained unchanged, the battle scars constantly accumulating, the only constant being these natives.
They continuously cycled between life and death, wielding increasingly insane weapons—demonic swords, demon sabers, twisted firearms, distorted arms, and so on.
These are not things ordinary people can bear, yet here they use them as if wholesale, casually, without dying because of them.
