A soldier in the central army of Xiqi had his left shoulder blade pierced by a bronze spear, the broken end of his collarbone puncturing his chain armor. Yet, with his broken arm, he clamped down on the enemy's halberd, and with his right arm, thrust his sword into the enemy's throat.
Such a gruesome scene would shock even a cultivator, yet it was very real, unfolding in every corner of this land.
The army, like a reaper, harvested lives from morning till dusk, and then, in a tacit agreement, both sides withdrew like the receding tide.
By the end, the battlefield had turned into a swamp of blood and flesh.
The setting sun caught on a broken halberd's blade, burning holes in the clouds the size of copper coins.
The shadows of cold crows above the pile of corpses were woven into a black net. As they folded their wings and dived, the arcs formed by their tail feathers resembled the trajectories of daytime arrows.
