Wei Ping was no fool.
Xiao Jin was using the method of boiling a frog in warm water, dismantling the Bitao Sect piece by piece.
Once Chiyan Valley and the Kaoshan Sect were destroyed, Wei Ping feared he would not even keep the empty title of "Naval Commander." Then he would either be cut down or tossed into some idle post and left to fend for himself.
The Bitao Sect's centuries-old legacy would die quietly in his hands.
His fingers tightened around the railing, his knuckles turning white.
Lately, he often lay awake at night, turning one question over and over in his mind.
With Xiao Jin's main force advancing west and his rear left exposed, should Wei Ping secretly contact the Three-Sect Allied Army and switch sides on the battlefield?
Once the thought took root, he could not suppress it.
But whenever he remembered that dark-red blade light on the Heng Ridge battlefield and the sight of Cao Hongshen being cleaved in two with a single stroke,
whenever he remembered Li Zhenyue kneeling in the mud, kowtowing and begging for mercy, cold sweat broke out across his back.
Xiao Jin was simply too strong.
He was at Peak Organ Tempering and wielded the Demon Blade, with thirty thousand battle-hardened cavalry under his command. The Three-Sect Allied Army numbered fewer than ten thousand even by the most generous count. Daoist Fencang and Su Qinghan were both at Late-Stage Organ Tempering, while Situ Lie was gravely wounded and half-crippled.
What could they use to stop Xiao Jin?
Even if Wei Ping switched sides on the battlefield and brought over the Bitao Sect's battered remnants, he would only add a few more heads to Xiao Jin's tally.
Footsteps sounded below the Watchtower.
Wei Ping did not turn. From the footfalls, he knew