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On a barren hill, patches of withered grass made the place look desolate. Cheng Yong, grasping his large ring saber, panted continuously.
At this moment, Cheng Yong was no longer the proud and spirited fellow who had walked alongside Zheng Ming. The brocade robe that had just been made for him was now stained with dirt and blood, looking utterly disheveled.
Compared with his clothes, the injuries on Cheng Yong's body were much more severe. Ragged strips of cloth were haphazardly tied over his wounds, especially the one under his ribs, which continued to bleed profusely.
"Old Cheng, you... put me down and go on by yourself; I really can't make it. Cough, cough... If you don't go, neither of us will be able to escape," lamented the man leaning on Cheng Yong with infinite sorrow.
