The setting sun was as red as blood, yet blood was not the setting sun.
When sorrow reached its extreme, it became fear. When fear reached its extreme, it became rage. And when rage reached its extreme, it transformed into a kind of power.
The power of hatred—even death could not erase such hatred.
But that was not the truth.
If Duanmu Huai knew that saying, he would say that it was only because not enough people had died.
Just like now.
The blood-red setting sun shone over the Martial Arts Arena, painting everything scarlet.
But this was not sunlight. It was blood.
Thick, nauseating, murky blood.
And corpses.
Corpses that had fought with everything they had.
Duanmu Huai stood there quietly. His body was covered in blood, but not a drop of it was his own. Corpses lay all around his feet, yet none of them had anything to do with him.
Because they were all dead.
They had gone mad.
Only madmen were unafraid of death. They had exhausted every means at their disposal. They had even climbed onto Duanmu Huai, clutched his arms, grabbed his legs, and used their teeth, fingernails, and bodies to hinder him, stop him, and kill him.
Yet none of it meant anything to Duanmu Huai.
He was like an activated Terminator robot. All he had to do was rise, throw a punch, lift his foot, and stomp down.
Then he repeated the process until the last moving chunk of flesh in the square stopped. No one could stop him—not blades, not fists and feet, nothing. Not even the Little Li Flying Dagger.
Then Duanmu Huai stopped as well, like a machine that had finally run out of power.
If this had continued, it might have become the most unsettling and terrifying legend