On the northern ridge.
The great tent was swept away by the surging airwave and vanished without a trace.
Ashina watched the scene on the distant ridge, her eyes filled with shock and awe.
With just this one punch, no one knew how many warriors of the Eighteen Tribes had been blasted to death.
With the might of this punch, if it had landed on the ridge where she stood, she would have been no different from that drifting mist of blood on the far ridge.
The eight thousand Great Snow Dragon Horses would also have suffered losses beyond counting under this single punch.
In all of this, she truly felt the terror of a mighty expert.
In front of such a strong one, what use is numbers?
No matter how many armies, they would only mean a few more punches.
"No wonder the Martial Saint in those years could suppress the world alone for more than eight hundred years!" Ashina murmured softly.
Yet her voice clearly reached the ears of the leaders of the various tribes.
Just then.
