On the main street, warriors clad in black heavy armor lay strewn in every direction. Blood covered the ground, and the soldiers' arms and legs were twisted at grotesque angles—injuries Enzo had inflicted by brutally smashing their limbs apart with his massive iron rod.
Below Beludi, three imperial major generals, seventeen imperial colonels, over a thousand officers of every rank and ordinary soldiers had all been beaten flat by Enzo alone. One major general who had reached the upper Saint Disciple realm had not even had time to unleash his battle energy before Enzo's iron rod crashed into his chest, pulverizing his ribs like flour. He fell to the ground, vomiting blood, howling and crying as he struggled to stay alive.
Their injuries were all severe, yet none were fatal. If they were willing to spend a hefty sum to hire several priests from the Temple of Life, these wounded men would be alive and kicking again within seven or eight days at most. But for now, they all lay sprawled on the ground, staring at Enzo as though their gazes were erupting volcanoes. The heat in their eyes seemed enough to burn him to ashes.
Enzo shook his head, put the iron rod back into his ring, then walked over to the imperial major general whose chest he had caved in and who was now coughing up mouthful after mouthful of blood. He drew the one-handed sword from the man's waist.
The sword was three fingers wide and three feet five inches long, a very standard one-handed war sword. Its pale golden blade was faintly translucent, with a ring of runes flowing back and forth within it like running water. It possessed considerable spirituality and radiated a chilling aura that made one's heart tremble. This was a lower-grade saint