He fought barehanded in a sea of corpses. Every punch crushed skulls. Every elbow shattered ribs. Every kick snapped spines. Bodies fell around him in heaps, yet for every enemy he destroyed, more crawled from beneath the blood-soaked earth.
Time gradually lost all meaning.
Hours passed.
Then days.
Then months.
Perhaps even years.
His body in that world never truly tired, but his mind was pressed endlessly beneath scenes of slaughter. Everywhere he looked there was blood. Everywhere he listened there were silent screams. Everywhere he turned another enemy rushed to kill him.
At first, Li Yun relied on technique. He observed movement, exploited openings, and fought with precision.
Later, precision alone was not enough.
Only survival mattered.
His attacks became faster. His movements became simpler. He abandoned wasteful flourishes and unnecessary actions. Every strike was aimed only at ending life in the shortest possible moment.
