In the black sky, a crescent moon hung high up. The cold moonlight was like a sharp blade that slashed down on the ground, stirring up the wind as it whistled past.
This wind blew up some of the snow on the ground, merging with the blade light falling from the sky. It swept in all directions, causing the grass in the Red Plains to bend slightly.
Xu Qing's figure moved forward like a ghost. As the cold light from the dagger shone in the night, boiling blood splattered everywhere from the desperadoes' bodies, landing on the red grass that was bent by the wind.
However, the evil contained in this blood was not qualified to melt the cold nor lower the temperature of the wind on this winter night. It was despised by even the red grass; they used the wind to bend down and shake the blood off their bodies drop by drop.
Corpses fell one after another.
The dagger in Xu Qing's hand became the last light in their lives.
