"Wuaaah—!" Type One roared. One hand yanked on an Aoyin's long tongue, while the other split its head open as though smashing a watermelon. He stood there, panting heavily. "Brother!"
"I'm fine over here!" Type Zero shouted. Hugging a log as thick as his waist, he smashed a chimei so hard that its soul scattered, then casually flung the log aside.
Even the two brothers, whose combat power far surpassed the rest, had little strength left to speak.
All around them lay countless Aoyin corpses, along with the bodies of many other foreign races. The lingering black mist left behind after the chimei were dispersed hung in the air like an indelible stain. The entire scene resembled a living hell. No—it was hell.
"Hey! Are you two all right?" Wen Ju jogged over to Type Zero's side, expertly pulling out herbs he had gathered in his spare time and beginning to stop the brothers' bleeding.
"Cough, cough—ugh—" Ji Chao sat slumped beneath a nearby tree, his face pale as death. After coughing twice, he struggled to prop himself up and once again circulated his breath to steady himself.
This was the fourth foreign-race tribe they had encountered since entering the southwest.
This was Yelang, but ever since entering the southwest, they had not had a single easy or comfortable purge. Back on the plateau, those foreign races had been caught completely unaware and defenseless, and Type Zero and Type One had dealt with them effortlessly. But now that the collective awareness of the entire race had caught on, the strength of these monsters had increased by more than tenfold.
It was as though the resentment of every foreign race slain by the brothers had gathered within those that remained. The offensive and defensive positions had reversed. The foreign races knew