The sound of hoofbeats gradually faded until it vanished completely.
There was not the slightest trace of anyone else nearby. From beneath the blood-red earth within the rift carved by that sword strike, a hand suddenly burst forth.
It was covered in blood-colored soil, the palm broad and powerful.
Had it been a pale, delicate hand, it would have looked like something out of a horror story.
But the appearance of such a burly hand changed the feeling entirely—it looked capable of crushing ghosts to death.
The chief of the Eighteen Strongholds crawled out from underground. His body was covered in vicious wounds, and though he looked to be on his last breath, he was not dead.
He stared blankly at the blood-red ravine around him.
That crimson color was the color of blood.
One strike. Just one strike, and he and his battle-hardened men had been utterly wiped out.
Only he had survived.
Moreover, as the chief looked at his trembling hands, he saw that his iron fists had been completely crippled.
Forget becoming a Grandmaster—being able to live out the rest of his life as a healthy man would already be difficult.
"...Heavenly Demon Jia Rong."
Muttering under his breath, the chief slowly climbed to his feet. He did not even dare glance toward where Tang Luo and the others had disappeared, and staggered away with difficulty.
After stumbling along for roughly half an hour, the chief collapsed unconscious by the roadside.
When he woke, he was already in a quiet room, and his wounds had been properly treated.
"Is anyone there?" the chief called hoarsely.
Before long, the door to the room opened and someone entered.
"It's you?" The chief stared at the man for a while before recognizing him, surprise appearing on his face. "Didn't you