Demonic energy surged into the heavens.
Another Yang Spirit Demon King appeared.
The human side turned ashen.
The roof leaked just as the rain poured all night.
The Demon Race commander appeared in imposing splendor, sword in hand, clad in Dark Armor, his crimson cloak billowing.
He unleashed his Yang Spirit pressure to its fullest, darkening the skies for ten thousand miles and making the earth, mountains, and rivers tremble.
He was clearly stronger than the other Yang Spirit Demon Kings.
Despair appeared on the faces of many human soldiers and officers.
How were they supposed to fight this battle?
The Marquis of the North's heart sank, his expression grim.
Seeing their flagging morale, he forced himself to rally.
He was the commander of the frontier.
Anyone could panic and fear, but not him.
Facing the two Yang Spirit Demon Kings, the Marquis of the North remained composed and unruffled, however uncertain he felt inside.
He raised his arm, lifted his sword, and cried:
"Soldiers, behind us are our families and clans, and the countless people of Great Xuan.
If the Demon Race invades, they will be slaughtered. Our wives and children will scream, our clans will totter, and our people will wail.
Blood will run in rivers, and white bones will cover the fields.
We will be condemned as Great Xuan's sinners for all eternity.
For our people, for our clans, for our wives and children, for ourselves—fight to the death!"
His impassioned voice spread along the Great Wall.
His heartfelt words echoed throughout the army.
The frightened soldiers fell silent.
Soon, a young general in white robes was blasted away.
He was the grandson the Marquis of the North valued most. He had grown up in Border City and begun scrambling through battlefields at ten.
In small-scale clashes