He had only come to this world to pillage and plunder, and to refine his Magical Treasure.
If these natives were unwilling…
'Shouldn't they at least give me a chance to talk?!'
'Why are they acting like madmen, charging forward recklessly even when it means being struck down with a single palm strike?'
At first, he had deluded himself into thinking a ruthless slaughter would make these natives cower in fear. But after killing wave after wave, he found himself in a killing frenzy, and yet the natives still refused to fall back.
The Cultivator realized the problem likely stemmed from the young man who had ambushed him earlier. But even with this realization, it was already too late.
His Spiritual Power had dwindled to less than thirty percent, yet the horde of Martial Artists still swarmed him like cockroaches, refusing to back down.
