The dragon robe he had been wearing had long since vanished without a trace.
His black hair had already turned to ash, his skin was charred black, and not a single part of him appeared intact.
There was not a single piece of good flesh left on his body.
Moreover, thick black smoke billowed from him.
He looked like a man who had been burned to a crisp.
Yet he was not dead—not completely.
"I'm not dead. I'm not dead."
"Your three swords... I... I, Wang Ziyi... endured them."
"You should fulfill your... promise."
Wang Ziyi raised his head and looked at Ye Lin.
Once he finished speaking, the last trace of breath in him finally dispersed.
At that moment, he completely closed his eyes.
His body fell from the sky.
It plunged into the bottomless, enormous crater below, several thousand zhang in diameter.
At that moment, the entire battlefield fell deathly silent.
The hundreds of millions of soldiers ahead stood rigidly in the air.
Their Imperial Lord was just... gone?
Their invincible Imperial Lord, their peerless and arrogant Imperial Lord, was just... gone?
They could not believe it. They dared not believe it, nor did they want to.
For a time, they did not know what to do.
"You could have saved him."
"If you had joined forces, I might have had to put in some effort, but you did not act."
"A pack of cowards. I do not wish to kill you right now. You may crawl back to your own dynasties and wait quietly for me—wait for me to come and kill you one by one."
Ye Lin glanced at the distant sky, his face full of disdain.
Wang Ziyi before him had some backbone.
Those fellows in the sky, on the other hand, were cowards among