Jiang Long rode the Best Metal, suspended in midair. Behind him were the fleeing refugees, while the army that had come to exterminate them hesitated to advance.
"How could there be a cultivator among the refugees?" the central commander asked, his expression shocked and suspicious.
The army had about two thousand cavalrymen, with another ten thousand infantry arranged in formation. With just over ten thousand men in total, they had dared to exterminate four hundred thousand refugees.
In truth, they had already routed and slaughtered even more refugees earlier.
They were well equipped and rigorously trained. The refugees, by contrast, were gaunt and malnourished, and most did not even have weapons. Let alone one against forty— even one thousand against four hundred thousand would have dared to attack.
This army had fought its way here, driving the four hundred thousand refugees like cattle and sheep. They intended to join the armies from the four directions here and wipe out all four hundred thousand people. That would be quite a windfall.
The extermination had originally been a foregone conclusion. But then Jiang Long flew into the sky and declared that he would protect the rebels, instantly intimidating them.
A cultivator might not be able to destroy their ten-thousand-man army, but taking the head of their commanding general amid ten thousand troops would still be effortless.
The general stationed in the central army did not dare delay. He hurriedly sent someone to inquire about Jiang Long's origins, while he himself rushed toward a large golden-canopied carriage in the center.
There was also a cultivator in that carriage—their family's grandfather-generation ancestor, a cultivator.
"Great-Granduncle, there's a cultivator among the refugees. He's blocking the road with a black sword and claims he'll protect the refugees," the general said.
"Is that so?" The cultivator leaped