The air split with a piercing explosion as lead bullets whizzed past them like locusts.
The scorching Holy Wind descended densely upon the soldiers' chests and bellies.
Bright red blood mist rose continuously from the front ranks, mixed with even more heart-wrenching cries from the battle formation.
"Mom, I'm dead!"
"Don't block, don't block..."
"It's the Devil's Wind, Monks, start praying!"
A lead bullet flew past, and Zelaken's heart nearly leapt out of his throat. His voice, sharp amid the gunfire, sounded like a eunuch: "Ah! Monks, hurry, use your invincible Divine Art to think of something!"
The leader of the Monks did not respond. Zelaken turned to look.
Only to see the lead Monk with a bullet hole in the center of his forehead, lying on the ground, face serene and smiling, unmistakably dead with sweet repose.
