As fewer and fewer people remained by his side, the slaughter was also drawing to an end.
Song Da was dead. Song Er was dead. Song Qi and Song Jiu were all dead.
Ghost Arhat had lost one hand and one leg and could no longer even stand. Mao Bu Er was in an even worse state—half his head had been hacked off. He lay on the ground, screaming incessantly, yet unable to truly die. Being dead would have been a relief.
These men had all been loyal servants of the Song Clan, Song Tingyun's most trusted people. Every one of them had reached a profound cultivation realm and possessed extraordinary skill, yet they had still died beneath the joint encirclement and suppression of the Supervision Department and the City Guard Army.
Two fists could not withstand four hands; a fierce tiger could not defeat a pack of wolves.
No matter how formidable a master was, it was still difficult to annihilate hundreds or even thousands of enemies.
Song Tingyun was spattered with blood from head to toe. His wedding robes were in complete disarray, torn here and there until he looked utterly wretched. Countless cuts covered his face and body. The most serious sword wound was on his left arm, where the flesh had peeled open to reveal white bone, and blood was gushing out in a steady stream.
"Master, run—run!" Song Wu cried from behind him, his voice thick with sobs. "Go back and tell the Old Immortal what happened today. Have the Old Immortal avenge our brothers!"
"Master, I'll fight them to the death. Take this chance to leave!" One of Song Liu's eyes had been blinded, and blood streamed down his face and body. He paid it no heed, still gripping the longsword in his hand,