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With a single swing of his sword, the Human Emperor drew on the will of the people as his spine, the mountains and rivers as his courage, and the fire in his gut as the edge of his blade. That sword strike could lay waste to the western invaders, cut down every ghost and demonic beast, and bring order to even the most chaotic of lands.
And yet, this man, the Human Emperor, so tall that his figure vanished into the clouds above, struck only once. After that, he simply held his sword aloft, motionless.
That single sword strike shattered the 20,000-strong force of twin-headed direwolf riders, who had charged forward with bloodthirsty ambition, dreaming of carving their way through the Central Plains and breaking down the gates of the Jade Capital.
Whether they were the fifth rank warriors of the Nine Flames Tribe or the terrifying twin-headed direwolves bred in the icy pits of Kabrol, all of them bled from seven orifices. This was more than just injury. Their very insides had collapsed. Even their hearts had failed.
One strike, 20,000 elite riders, nearly all annihilated.
Only a scattering of barely a thousand remained.
At the front of them stood Khagan Naran, his mane-like hair flaring wildly, gripping the shattered haft of his once-glorious...
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