Zhou Qiubai and Yang Guyun had somehow already taken their positions outside the city gate.
The drawbridge had not been lowered. They had jumped down from the city wall.
Zhou Qiubai drew the White Clothes Sword, its tip trembling lightly in the morning breeze. Yang Guyun planted the Black Spear into the ground and coldly watched the approaching black mass.
"I'll go first," Yang Guyun said.
"Don't go too far."
As if he had not heard, Yang Guyun raised his spear and charged out.
The black mass rolled forward faster and faster, finally colliding with Yang Guyun.
His spear thrust out. A flash of black light followed, then a piercing shriek.
Yang Guyun charged into the enemy formation. His spear rose and fell, horses collapsing and men toppling.
He did not look to either side, only pushed relentlessly forward.
The spearpoint pierced leather shields, punched through armor, and nailed enemies alive into the mud.
With a backhanded sweep, before blood could even spray, someone swung a blade at him. Before the blade landed, its wielder had already been sent flying.
Someone ambushed him from behind and to the side. Without turning his head, he drove the butt of his spear back viciously, striking the attacker squarely in the face.
In the blink of an eye, not one of the dozens of Spirit Hall vanguard troops at the front could still stand. Wherever the Black Spear passed, twisted corpses littered the ground.
Chen Xuan had somehow seated himself atop the city wall.
Black winds swept the earth, blood surging like tides. One spear fell, and ten thousand bones vanished.
Souls quaked and courage shattered, with no road left to return. Only Yama beckoned for their lives.
Though a thousand troops marched together to their deaths, they could not match a lone