Chu Ming's figure was ghostly, a crimson streak passing through the crowd.
"Ah—"
"Third Master, save me—"
Cries of agony rose one after another.
Everywhere he passed, a bandit fell.
The Third Master of Black Wind Stronghold felt his bare scalp tingling.
He wanted to flee, but every direction he tried was blocked by a flying corpse. It seemed coincidental, but he knew it wasn't.
As more than two hundred fell in succession, the whole plaza was stained red. The Third Master stood amidst the pile of bodies, covered in gore.
With a cold gaze sweeping over him, the Third Master's legs went weak.
What kind of person could carry out such endless slaughter?
Never tiring, never exhausting.
He opened his mouth, every word filled with fear, "Please... spare..."
Before he finished, what responded was a streak of red light, and then the world spun around him.
All twelve hundred bandits of Black Wind Stronghold were completely annihilated.
