The Dying Man Suddenly Sits Up in Bed-Turns Out I'm the Sixth One!

As the saying went, ginger grew hotter with age. As a Northerner, Hogg had grown up with his family often making stews, and stews needed ginger to get rid of the gamey smell and add flavor.

The problem was that ginger looked far too much like meat. It often betrayed Hogg, forcing him to choose between getting scolded and swallowing it whole. It was a true assassin.

Now, just like back then, watching Guilliman charge in only to get knocked flat with one punch, Hogg felt like cursing.

The way you'd charged in just now, leaping into a sword strike, anyone would've thought you were one badass hunk of muscle. Who could've guessed you were all show and no substance—a plastic shell, and not even a proper one, just a floating plastic bag?

No wonder they hadn't taken you on the Great Crusade. With boarding skills like that, you belonged at the kids' table. If you couldn't handle melee, why not use psychic powers? Guilliman, you bastard, don't you know how to whip up a bolt of Psionic Energy?

In the end, Hogg never said any of that aloud. Not because he was worried about bruising the loser's ego, but because Guilliman had gone down and wasn't getting back up. It was as absurd as a soccer match ending seven-nil.

Resentful of the useless idiot, Hogg grabbed his greatsword and charged forward. He had no other reason than that his sword was called Frostmourne, so surely he could give this clueless Yellow Weasel a brutal thrashing.

"You backstabbing assassin! How dare you stab me in the back? Daddy's going to give you some long-overdue fatherly love today!"

With his sky-high stats, Hogg swung Frostmourne with a fierce, whistling force. His assault was so relentless that even the Emperor struggled to