The rumbling was incessant, swiftly approaching.
Sheng Zhehan's body tensed. In his view, the yellow stone walls that had endured millennia of weathering shattered, transforming into billowing clouds of dust under the heavy hoofbeats. The remnants of millennia were finally pierced through, turning into powder.
Like a sudden sandstorm erupting.
The last remaining wall crumbled.
The dull explosion sound gradually faded away, followed by the clear sound of flags fluttering. A thousand gray banners emerged like descending dark clouds. At the visible horizon, they rolled forward, accompanied by a thunderous roar.
Sheng Zhehan clenched his jaw, staring ahead unwaveringly. Only a dozen archers—if they scattered, there would be even less hope and chance for victory. It was better to confront them head-on, waiting right in front of the opponent, dozens of bows facing the charge of eight thousand elite iron cavalry—a seemingly suicidal move marked by tragic arrogance.
