Chapter 1199 The Tyndall Army, Best in the World

• “Draw blades.” A thunderous shout. Steel flashed like lightning. All blade force came crashing down. “Bang.” The white-robed bishops charging in front blew apart, bodies bursting. Flesh and blood burst into flame, then burned to ash. “Draw blades.” Hong Si shouted again. He himself became a spearpoint, a razor edge, and slammed forward without fear. “Hmph.” The scarlet archbishop snorted coldly. “Don’t move.” Damon King blocked the scarlet archbishop. “If you make a move, I’ll kill you today.” “...” A chill crawled over the archbishop’s heart. Power of space gathered at his fingertips, his face set and grim. “Go.” He gave the order. Spatial pressure spread, bearing down on Damon. He could stand still—and make Damon stand still, too. The two faced off. “Leave it to me.” The Old Demon ripped out his demon blade and hacked down. Two scarlet bishops rushed to meet him, and the Old Demon fought them head-on. On the other side— “Draw blades.” Outnumbered by dozens, by hundreds, the thirty-some orphans of the Western Expedition showed not a flicker of fear. They were born to die hard. When a blade is drawn, someone falls. If not the enemy, then one of their own. Boom! Energy roared across heaven and earth. The thirty-plus formed a battle array, an arrow that punched deep into the enemy ranks. “Clang, clang, clang.” The clash made ears ring. The Western Expedition fought like a pack of maniacs who feared nothing. Not one man backed down. Every breath was an attack. “Kill, kill, kill.” Flames of hate surged like a devil clawing at their hearts. “Pfft.” A Western Expedition fighter fell to the Crusaders’ blades. “The Tyndall Army, best in the world.” With his final breath, the dying soldier shouted the proudest line of his life. Tears pricked thirty pairs of eyes, and they roared in unison, “The Tyndall Army, best in the world.” “Kill.” A brother’s death lit a fire in the living. Their momentum surged like a rainbow after rain. “Cleave.” “Cleave.” “Cleave.” When Hong Si yelled “Cleave,” all thirty-some raised their blades, breath gathered low and fierce, and screamed, “Cleave—” Blade light converged, a shining arc like a rainbow spearing the sun. “Boom.” That cut carried the soul of the Tyndall Army. Wherever it passed, everything was wiped out. Too strong. With war intent roaring like a tidal wave, that one cut felt like it could split the sky and earth. “Ah—” Screams. Wailing. Bodies dropping like wheat. “The Tyndall Army, best in the world.” Even after the strongest cut, they kept charging, fearlessly, like wolves. Their aura shook the white-robed bishops; the Crusaders went pale with dread. Hands holding weapons started to tremble and lose strength. The tempo of the entire field fell under the Western Expedition’s heel. “Kill, kill, kill.” Stop killing with more killing. This army had seen a real mountain of corpses and a sea of blood. What lay before them now? Just a small skirmish. They had fought heaven and fought earth, and never once stepped back. Facing off with the First Scarlet Archbishop, Damon King couldn’t help turning to look at the squad now cut down to twenty-three. At their front stood a figure straight as a javelin, leading the charge. And it felt like one hand after another grabbed the Western Expedition’s blades, helping them swing—making every strike hit harder. The battle raged for a full half hour. “Boom!” A muffled thunder rolled across the sky. Then the rain came down in sheets. On the field, only seven men were left standing. Straight-backed, they stood tall over ground churned into a lake of blood and a pile of corpses. The seven raised their blades and shouted, voices shaking the world: “The Tyndall Army, best in the world—” That line was their soul. “Good.” Damon King couldn’t hold back his shout of praise. “The Tyndall Army deserves to be called the best in the world.” These men needed recognition. Even after five hundred years. Even crushed for five hundred years. They were still the unbeaten army. The seven turned, bowed from the waist. Wild pride cut across their faces. Damn right—they were unbeatable. “Hahaha.” In the distance, the Old Demon laughed loud enough to rattle bones. “The Tyndall Army, best in the world! I, Old Chu, don’t have much to toast you with—so I’ll cut down a god-tier for your victory feast!” Clang! One blade split the Seventh Scarlet Archbishop from sky to earth. “Devour.” The demon maw tore open again, swallowing heaven and earth. The Fifth Scarlet Archbishop was gulped down whole. Bang, bang, bang! The demon maw bulged and rattled, iron clatters ringing from inside. The man inside clawed to get out. The Old Demon didn’t allow it. He burned him down, relentless. “Splash!” Blood rain poured as the maw yawned wide again, and a corpse tumbled out. “Go.” The First Scarlet Archbishop didn’t hesitate for one second. He turned and left. The newly minted scarlet archbishop, Morofei, hated to retreat—but the Old Demon’s power scared her to the bone. She had no choice but to follow the First and withdraw. Damon King and the Old Demon didn’t chase. Killing a scarlet archbishop once in a while was fine. Kill too many, and the Angelic Synod would go insane. The great war would come early. Hong Si and the remaining seven got to work, gathering their brothers’ bodies and burying them where they fell. “Not taking them back?” the Old Demon asked. “No need.” Hong Si’s face showed zero sorrow. “The Tyndall King once said, any enemy of our Tyndall Army—even if they go to hell—we’ll kill them again. With the brothers buried here, it’s easier down there. No need to search all over. Just start cutting.” Ruthless. Listening to Hong Si speak of the Tyndall Army, Damon King grew curious about that Tyndall King. What kind of man disappears for five hundred years, yet the ones who followed him still refuse to forget the glory they once had?