Marcha dos Generais

His head struck the ground.

Blood from the neck sprayed out like flowers in full bloom.

Screams, groans, roars, whinnies.

Who am I?

Where am I?

Why is the blood on my face so hot?

Why are they all falling back?

What are they afraid of?

The broken remnants of the army retreated in utter disarray. Amid the clamor of iron armor, countless armored soldiers surged forward and surrounded me in layers.

Battle axes gleamed cold as water, heavy shields stood shoulder to shoulder like mountains, and leveled spears bristled like a forest.

These were the elite among the elite of the state of Wei, the famed Warrior Corps, each one selected through many rigorous trials.

To be naturally strong was only the beginning; to bear heavy armor and wield formidable weapons was merely the foundation. Only after surviving several bloody battles could one earn the right to be counted among them.

Yet these veterans of a hundred battles were all pale-faced now, and more than a few could not help swallowing hard.

Within the layers of encirclement formed by these armored warriors of Wei, there stood only a single solitary figure.

His left lower leg was gone, and a broken spear shaft had been tied to his thigh as a makeshift support for his body. Half the flesh on his right leg had vanished, exposing the bloody bone beneath; at the wound, the muscle was half red, half white, and no blood could still flow from it.

On his back, the once intact armor had been reduced to a single fragment. It was less as though it hu