"It's not just the master who gets one—you all get one too. Men, issue rifles to the Daoist masters and these skilled individuals as well. Everyone gets one!"
At Adjutant Mo's command, the soldiers in the front row briskly removed their spare rifles and shoved them into the hands of the talented individuals who were still standing there in a daze.
The cold steel rifles felt heavy in their hands. For a moment, everyone froze where they stood.
The old monk was still foolishly clutching the rifle Adjutant Mo had tossed him, his face filled with bewilderment.
Qingyunzi's hand holding the Peachwood Sword trembled slightly, while the rifle in his other hand seemed to weigh a thousand pounds.
The wandering martial artists looked at one another. The secret demon-banishing arts they had trained in for years now seemed less straightforward and efficient than simply pulling a trigger.
Half a lifetime of cultivation, decades of grueling effort—all of it appeared so pale and powerless before these talisman-covered rifles.
"Amitabha..." the old monk murmured, though it was impossible to tell whether he was delivering the last rites for the fierce ghosts or mourning the collapse of his own beliefs.
What kind of existence could draw such evil-slaying talismans?
Could it truly be that Heaven had taken pity and sent down a true immortal to save this fallen age?
Before anyone could recover from the shock of the talisman rifles, a dull tremor suddenly rolled through the ground in the distance.
From deep within Linjiagang, a black mass of Corpse Horde surged forth like a tide.
Their bodies were stiff, yet each leap carried them several zhang through the air, and every landing struck the ground with a heavy boom.
As far as the eye could see, they were all Bronze Armor Hairy