Beneath Ten Thousand Mile City, the Demon Race World had already withdrawn its forces. The Vast and Righteous World had suffered very few casualties this time, but "few" did not mean none.
As in the past, some cultivators gathered beneath the city to collect the bodies of their friends—or of people they had never even met.
Some corpses were mutilated beyond recognition, yet in their arms, people could still find wills sewn into their clothes.
Some cultivators might have been reduced to a single severed arm. If their friends could identify them, their ashes could still be sent back to their sects.
If they were lucky, they might even rely on a spirit mountain and become guardian spirits of their sects.
But quite a few cultivators had not even had friends. No one recognized them, and no wills could be found.
Most of these cultivators had been Wild Mountain Cultivators. They had come to Ten Thousand Mile City to risk their lives in search of Opportunity. In the words of the Wild Mountain Cultivators, perhaps death was simply death—why make anyone worry? And who would even worry about them...
Life and death were nothing unusual on the battlefield. Those old men who had experienced countless battlefields had long since grown numb to it.
Fortunately, most of the rookie cultivators who had descended from the City Wall for the first time had suffered only injuries. There had been no deaths.
Yet the survivors felt not the slightest bit of happiness. As they looked at everything beneath Ten Thousand Mile City, their expressions were solemn.
At that moment, they understood. So this was the battlefield.
"Look, why are those demon troops withdrawing so strangely?"
Just as the rookie cultivators on the various sections of the City Wall were sighing over life, similar