The piercing whistle echoed across the training ground of No.4 Base, where a clamorous shout erupted. Thousands of vigorous Wind Army soldiers, who had no way to vent their energy, chanted loudly the designation "Guard Corps, Unit Four."
The elite martial contest had ended.
The scene was utterly tragic.
Of the hundreds of soldiers who participated, half were restrained on the ground, and the other half were covered in injuries.
At the epicenter of the 'battlefield', Yang Ming was sitting on a strong man's back. His white tank top bore several footprint marks, and the sides of his boots were stained with dark red blood.
Not a single drop of blood was his own.
"Do you submit now?"
Yang Ming looked down and asked.
The robust man beneath him struggled fiercely, roaring in unwillingness, "You damn played dirty, Yang Ming! I don't submit!"
"Alright," Yang Ming jumped up, "I'll give you this chance."
