Slash!
Yan Xiangma flicked up the longsword in his hand, and a head went sailing into the air.
The Peacock Soldier widened his eyes and stared at Yan Xiangma in disbelief. He could not understand how this enemy general could possess such tenacious vitality. Everyone around him had died, yet he was still fighting desperately, resisting to the bitter end rather than surrendering.
Having put too much force into the strike, Yan Xiangma staggered and pitched forward.
Slash!
The Changle Sword in his hand plunged into the black earth, halting his fall and saving him from burying his face in the mud and making a complete fool of himself.
"Come on! Come again! Come and kill me!" Yan Xiangma raised his head and roared, his blood-red eyes fixed on the Peacock Warriors closing in around him.
Yan Xiangma was utterly exhausted. Ever since the failed night raid, he had led several thousand men in a desperate flight. In the end, some of those beside him had died and others had been wounded. By the time they reached Wujiang Ferry Crossing, the three-thousand-man force had been reduced to fewer than three hundred.
A force of three hundred, facing an enemy more than ten times its size, had traveled and fought without pause. Even a blacksmith would have been worn to the bone and unable to go on.
Now, the more than three hundred men beside him had all fallen into the mud beneath the torrential rain. None of them could ever stand again. Of the entire force, only he remained—only he was still holding on.
The armor on his body had been too heavy, so he had long since removed it and thrown it away. His clothes had been soaked through by the rain.
The icy fabric clung to his body,