The setting sun is like blood, but blood is not the setting sun.
When a person is overwhelmed by sorrow, they feel fear; when that fear reaches its peak, it turns into anger; and when anger reaches its peak, it transforms into a kind of strength.
The strength of hatred – even death cannot erase this kind of hatred.
But that's not the reality.
If Duanmu Huai knew this saying, he would say it's only because not enough have died.
Just like now.
The blood-red sunset shone on the Martial Arts Arena, a vivid scarlet.
But this wasn't sunlight, it was blood.
Thick, nauseating, murky blood.
And corpses.
Corpses that have given their all.
Duanmu Huai stood there quietly, his body stained with blood, but not a single drop was his own. The ground around him was covered with bodies, yet they had nothing to do with him.
Because all of them were dead.
They went mad.
