Sorcery Monarch Part 2

Chapter 282: Beheading - Halair

The setting sun was as red as blood, the evening clouds like fire.

A cool breeze blew gently, creating ripples on the river's surface.

Red blood pooled into a crimson stream, gurgling downwards.

The Silvermoon River was dyed red on one side, shimmering with a vivid scarlet under the lingering light of the setting sun.

Piles of corpses were swept aside by a powerful hand.

Occasionally, a few bodies would fall into the river, causing splashes.

The piled-up bodies were doused in alchemical fuel by Beelzebub and set ablaze.

Whoosh!

Fierce flames roared up, roaring wildly in the air.

The thick stench drifted with the wind, crossing the river and reaching the opposite bank.

"The second thousand-man squad is completely annihilated..."

There was no hint of sorrow in his eyes, only endless ruthlessness and cruelty. His voice was deep and indifferent.

The speaker was a tall, slender figure seated atop a high horse.

At first glance, his body wasn't particularly strong; his limbs were long, with tight, well-defined muscles exuding explosive power.

What left an even deeper impression was his slightly sunken cheeks, cold and sharp like an eagle.

His forehead, slightly furrowed with wrinkles, didn't make him look old but instead exuded an unspeakable dominance.

His light gold fur robe was stained with oil, grime, and indelible bloodstains.

Beneath the robe was a dark brown leather armor, its meticulously arranged scales gleaming faintly, adding to his mysterious majesty.

Two long curved blades hung at his waist, their edges chipped and nicked, emitting a cold glint under the sunset.

His calloused hands slowly caressed the hilt, radiating a sense of battle-worn experience.

If Matthew saw him, he would instantly recognize his identity, armor, and weapons.

Death's Witherer - Beheading - Halair!

Upon hearing his words, the surrounding minor tribe chiefs lowered their heads, not daring to meet his gaze.

When Halair's gaze swept over them, everyone felt a chill at their necks, as if their heads might roll off at any moment.

Halair glanced at the distant sunset, sighing inwardly.

He had escaped the pursuit of the eastern general but couldn't evade the poison and arrows of treacherous men.

Weakness and pain gnawed greedily at his life force, dragging him inch by inch into the abyss of death.

Halair couldn't resist, nor could he refuse. He glanced at the bridge connecting the two banks and let out a low grunt:

"The three tribes that arrived last will go first tomorrow. The rest, prepare to rest."

"Tomorrow morning, we must seize the bridgehead fort!"

"Once we break into the Silvermoon River plains, we'll survive!"

Most around him sighed in relief, except for a few tribal leaders hiding in the corner, their faces pale.

They didn't dare defy Halair's orders, nodding repeatedly, their eyes filled with helplessness and fear.