Chapter 170 The Person Who Goes to the Battlefield (1/2)

Heavy rain fell on Zhao Polu, drenching his long hair and outlining the cold and sharp edges and corners of the crossbow incisively and vividly. It was obvious a magic treasure with high class-ranking.

The long sword of the black-robed Taoist hung over Zhao Polu's head, and his action paused. His features stiffened immediately as the crossbow shot through his throat flying dozens of steps behind his head. Before he struggled to make a sound, he flew backward because of the great power of the crossbow. He fell on the ground heavily, causing muddy water everywhere.

”You...” The Taoist let out a fuzzy voice, struggling to raise his upper body. Before he could say the second word, he fell feebly without any movement.

Zhao Polu stood up and took back the long spear that had been with him for years. He stood still in the night rain in the wilderness, his body as straight as a javelin.

The heavy rain surrounded him, and his companions and enemies lay dead on his sides.

The night wind was very cold, but it took a very long time to cool down his hot body because his blood was boiling inside him.

Zhao Polu looked up at the boundless night sky. There were no stars on a night of thunder and rain, so it was bound to be dark before his eyes. His eyes were not bright, mixing with sadness that could not be dissolved.

He could not see the light beyond the night, and he could only see his comrades who had died in battle.

He seemed to see thousands of troops roaring and galloping in the grasslands.

The Black Office entered the east territory of Qing Prefecture, sent invitations widely, and raised the dispute with Penglai Taoist sect. The game was everywhere, rival shows were put on in different places, and a melee was a common occurrence.

But it was the first time they had been trapped on halfway. The other side dispatched two cultivators in high-level Qi-refining and used nearly three times forces to siege and kill all Zhao Polu's attendants.

Among the four cultivators with high-level Qi-refining in the Black Office, Zhao Polu had the lowest cultivation and weakest strength. On that day, he fought Liu Dazheng in Huangli County, but he was hit badly by only one strike of Liu Dazheng and lost his fighting ability instantly. However, it didn't mean that Zhao Polu was easy to deal with.

Zhao Polu gathered up the corpses of the swordsmen of the Black Office and dug a big hole by the road.

Dropping his long spear, he picked up his companions' bodies and put them in the hole one by one, putting them in order, shoulder to shoulder, foot to foot.

He even knelt beside them to help them straighten their robes.

The bamboo hats were put on his companions' chests, and the long knives were placed beside their hands.

He cut down many branches and leaves in the forest to cover their bodies tightly with no gaps. And then he piled up the wet mud and made a grave.

Zhao Polu was meticulous in his movements just like he buried his comrades' bodies on the battlefield in the past.

Standing in front of the grave, Zhao Polu kept silent.

He thought of the bloody scenes on the battlefield. In those days, he had buried many of his comrades.

The captain who took care of him like a brother, the team leader who laughed without front teeth, Gouwa who had shared a steamed patty with him, Erdan who always stuck with him, the valiant generals who were praised by the commissioner with him, the leader who fought side by side with him to destroy half the one-hundred-people team of the prairie savages over dozens of kilometers...

Some of their heads couldn't be found because they were cut off by the prairie savages; some of them were blasted to pieces by the cultivators of the savages so that their bodies were all incomplete; some of them died with wide eyes, showing their panic for dying.

They had white-haired parents, babies to feed, and wives who were waiting at the door for their returning...

The desert was Zhao Polu's battlefield, and the desert imperial court was his target. Day and night, he thought of his army could achieve the greatest glory.

But now, he arrived at Pinglu. In this completely irrelevant place, he became a Jianghu killer, facing a group of mysterious Jianghu Taoists.

Life was always unpredictable.

Zhao Polu took out a wineskin and sprinkled wine in front of the grave. At last, he left a little wine and raised his head to drink it all in one gulp.

Finishing these, Zhao Polu silently ducked his head and put on the bamboo hat. In the heavy rain, he turned around decisively to leave the grave without looking back.

Walking on the official road, Zhao Polu rushed through the rain, carrying a seriously injured swordsman on his back.

He spent too much time on disposing of his companions' bodies. The time when he arrived at his destination was drawing nearer and nearer, so he had to use all his skills.

The Wukong Sword Sect which was dozens of kilometers away was the battlefield of his trip.

He was alone and was carrying a seriously injured companion on his back.

But he had to go.

As a fighter, whether he had his comrades by his side or not, no matter what his comrades had become, he had to go to the battlefield on time as long as he had breath.

He held the long spear firmly, stood and fought, went all out, and never stopped fighting until he died.

No matter what kind of battlefield it was, whether he liked the opponents or not, whether he had a chance to win or not, he had to go to the battlefield.

If he was alive, he would live with his comrades; if he died, he would die with his comrades.

Go to the battlefield!

...

Five kilometers away from the mountain foot of the Qingshui Villa.

Several swordsmen in cyan were running quickly through the rain.

Dozens of gray-robed cultivators were chasing after them.