But so individuals can never be struck down by such things. At last, the man's large hand released the handlebar to grasp the hilt of his sword.
In the very eye of the storm, there was a sudden clarity and purity...
A refugee, squeezed and knocked over in the flight, instinctively looked back only to et the terrifying face of a Heretic and the bloody cleaver chopping towards him.
"No!"
The man was petrified. How "powerful" he had seed just monts ago when he was cursing the loudest, spitting all sorts of vile words.
The mont he threw the stone, he was a Brave, he was the leader, relishing the "reverent" gazes of those around him.
But now, he didn't even have the courage to stand up and run, just instinctively shutting his eyes, his body trembling as he waited for death.
CLANG! tal struck tal.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a broad, broken sword shielding him. He could even make out the mottled marks on the blade, and the person holding the sword was...
He saved ...
Before he could think further, the figure moved. The broken sword slashed out like a dragon entering the sea. In the next second, the Heretic was slain, blood splattering, a few drops landing on the brass-colored mask.
"Let them go! Co at , you bastards!"
The man didn't stop. He yelled at the Heretics and strode boldly among them, his movents slightly stiff yet incredibly resolute.
"Rain in the Forest!"
A fierce slash was unleashed, and another Heretic directly facing him was sliced in two, blood splashing like falling rain.
"High Sumr Before Autumn!"
The broken sword in his hand parried another Heretic's slashing claw, and with a backhanded slice, the previously nacing Heretic was cut down.
"Blood and Mud Intermingled!"
Stepping forward, he wielded the sword with both hands. A Heretic still slaughtering refugees was cut from shoulder to chest. Organs, pulled by gravity, spilled onto the ground, the heart still beating in the mud.
"Petals Drifting Down!"
As if by premonition, he turned and swung his sword, decapitating a Heretic attempting a sneak attack from behind. The head soared skyward before quickly falling back to earth.
Rain falling in the forest turns it to mud. The pre-autumn peak of sumr ushers in decline. The enemy's flesh drops onto the soil, while falling petals signify withering.
Each phrase he uttered foretold an enemy's demise, yet carried a poetic essence.
But even more terrifying was the sight of the figure with the broken sword charging into the Heretics, like a tiger among wolves. None of these crazed Heretics could withstand a single blow; each was cut down by his sword.
However, his body, long tornted by illness, struggled with such intense combat. After felling several Heretics, he was gasping for breath.
Facing the Heretics, he seed to falter. He even missed a swing, allowing one Heretic to seize the opening. An iron claw raked his front, leaving a mark on his breastplate.
Fortunately, the breastplate protected him, so he was uninjured. He retaliated with a sword strike that wounded the Heretic but failed to kill him. The resilience of these elite cultists was far greater than that of re rabble.
anwhile, his earlier shouts and the carnage he wrought had drawn the attention of more Heretics. They suddenly sward towards him.
Facing the encroaching Heretics, the man suddenly raised his sword high before him with both hands. A mysterious power surged from his body, instantly dispelling the weakness that had gripped him. In its place, an even more formidable pressure erupted forth.
Revenge!
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