Jogador Transdimensional

A strong stench of cow dung filled his nose and mouth.

Duncan felt his head buzzing, as if his right cheek had been struck hard. Half of his face was swollen, and his mouth was filled with the metallic taste of blood.

His face and clothes were smeared with manure, and he had collapsed beside a pile of dung and hay. Before he could make sense of what was happening, he heard piercing screams not far away, accompanied by the sickening sound of flesh being hacked to the bone.

The heavy scent of blood assaulted his senses.

Staggering to his feet, Duncan looked up and saw a corpse with eyes wide open in death—a middle-aged man with Western features, dressed like a farmer in tattered clothes. The man lay dead, blood and foam oozing from his mouth, his chest stained with blood, and beneath him was a pitchfork.

Another agonized scream echoed.

Thirty meters away, a peasant woman was felled by a sword strike, blood spurting from her carotid artery in a geyser over a meter high.

A towering, fierce figure retracted his sword, kicked the woman’s corpse aside, and with a backhanded strike, plunged his blade deep into a resisting farmer, extinguishing all hope.

It was slaughter.

A thorough and merciless massacre.

Three fully armed soldiers were butchering a group of unarmed peasants. They scattered the ragtag crowd with the ease of slicing fruit, each swing of their weapons claiming another innocent life.

He had transmigrated.

Duncan realized this immediately, and the next moment he grasped the pitchfork beside him.