"Whoosh, whoosh whoosh whoosh..."
A reeking wind swept in as over a hundred warhorses covered in black scales came charging out.
Each horse carried a bare-chested brute, their bodies crisscrossed with scars.
At the very front, a burly one-eyed man carried a serrated broadsword taller than a person on his shoulder, its edge drenched in blood.
"Mulin Stockade!"
Someone sucked in a cold breath.
"Those mad dogs who rob the roads are here too."
The people from Mulin Stockade paid no heed to the stares around them and charged straight toward a rise closest to the secret realm rift.
"Pfft!"
"Ah!"
"Urgh!"
"..."
Some cultivators along the way failed to dodge in time. With a sweep of the broadsword, they and their weapons were cleaved in two, blood splashing three feet high.
The leader, with only one eye, yanked on the reins, and his warhorse reared up.
He tipped back his head and gulped down a mouthful of wine before roaring in a gruff voice.
"Listen up, all of you! Treasures belong to those fated to possess them. I'm that fated man. Whoever dares fight me for them, I'll skin his entire family alive!"
His subordinates followed with earth-shaking, bizarre laughter that sent chills down everyone's spines.
"Boom!"
Another commotion erupted as a group of ragged Rogue Cultivators with fierce eyes arrived together.
At their head was an old man missing half an arm. He swept his sinister gaze across the surroundings, and everyone he looked at felt their hearts tighten.
"I, Life-Taking Old Man, have roamed the world for three hundred years. Whoever dares snatch something from me today, I'll make his soul scatter and his spirit dissipate, condemned beyond redemption for all eternity."
The Rogue Cultivators behind him were all unruly and defiant, the arrogance in their eyes