In the darkness, Liu Weian moved like a phantom, silently approaching the cemetery. From a distance, he spotted two sentries standing back-to-back, chatting quietly to pass the time. Because of the wind, only fragments of their conversation drifted over.
"You think... that girl's... dumb? Said someone... was inside... and she actually... believed it... thousands of people... and she still dared go in…"
"Not very bright… but strong as hell… killed dozens of our brothers… and still got out alive… wonder if they've caught her… been a whole day… no word back…"
"They must've gotten her… did you see who made the move? A Bronze-level expert…"
Liu Weian instantly understood why Lu Yan had been so furious. Everything had been for his sake! If he were in her position, he'd be even angrier. Thinking of Lu Yan being hunted for an entire day, he felt a swell of sorrow and gratitude—emotions that quickly burned into a raging fire.
From this moment on, there was no turning back. The Flying Horse Caravan had become his mortal enemy. They had seized his monster-hunting grounds, killed his friends, and now they were after him. If he still clung to hope or mercy, he'd be the next to die.
One of the sentries suddenly sensed something and jerked his head up—only to see a gleaming arrowhead right before his eyes. The thought of danger had just reached his brain when the arrow pierced his open mouth and shot through the back of his skull—then into the second sentry's head behind him.
By the time their bodies hit the ground, Liu Weian was already there, looting them with lightning speed before slipping deeper into the cemetery. A bit further in, he spotted another pair of sentries. The Flying Horse Caravan clearly placed high importance on this graveyard, stationing two layers of guards.
To commoners, noble families seemed untouchable—draped in gold and silk, dining on exotic delicacies, living in opulence. But nobles had their own headaches and worries. The Flying Horse Caravan was a newly risen force in the past few decades. Though they had amassed considerable wealth, they were still considered a lower-tier clan among the elite, lacking connections and deep roots. Cautious by nature, they avoided stepping into too many industries for fear of offending more powerful houses. Instead, they focused on running their caravan. Their shops dealt in trades that highborns shunned—like gambling. Though "Betting Pouches" weren't illegal in World of Beasts, they were still a shady business. Nobles stayed away, at least on the surface.
That's why, when they discovered the treasure trove buried in the cemetery, their first instinct wasn't to claim it long-term but to strip it clean as quickly as possible. If word got out, other families would inevitably want a share—something they couldn't afford to fight off. In Stonehold, a remote town, the Flying Horse Caravan lacked the muscle to defend such a lucrative site.
That's why they attacked even at night, knowing full well that zombies were stronger after dark. They were racing against time. The target was the zombies—not Lu Yan. Otherwise, even if she had three heads and six arms, she would never have made it out alive.
Suddenly, the air was filled with clashing swords, screaming arrows, and piercing cries. A gust of wind blew away the fog, revealing a battlefield in chaos. Stretching seven to eight hundred meters across, the area teemed with combatants—humans and zombies locked in deadly struggle. Arrows zipped through the sky. Blades flashed in the moonlight like fleeting stars.
Over four thousand people were engaged in the fight—the largest battle Liu Weian had ever witnessed. Dozens of zombies already lay dead on the ground. The sheer brutality of it chilled him to the bone, yet stirred something within him—an ancient, restless instinct.
A man's life is like a season's bloom. If you don't leave your mark on the world, what's the point of living at all?
This sight ignited the ambition buried deep in Liu Weian's soul. This is how life should be—when you raise your hand, armies follow; where your horse rides, all shall fall.
Suddenly, a burly man looked over his shoulder, eyes scanning the wilderness. He saw nothing but looked puzzled before turning back.
Liu Weian had flattened himself against the ground, moving like a shadow at a speed the naked eye could hardly catch. That man had given him a terrifying feeling. Just one glance, and he was nearly discovered. If it weren't for the darkness, the corpse-laden stench of the graveyard masking his scent, and his clothes blending in with the terrain, he'd be exposed.
The man wasn't tall—maybe 1.7 meters at best, shorter than Liu Weian—but the aura he gave off was like a mountain pressing down. If the sword-carrying youth was a mid-Bronze-level fighter, then this man was at least high-Bronze, maybe even Silver.
That realization made Liu Weian even more cautious. It took him ten full minutes to crawl just fifty meters—only after he was sure he'd exited the Silver-tier warrior's perception range did he leap up and dash in a wide arc around the battlefield.
In military history, battle formations have always been a key focus. Though the Flying Horse Caravan's troops were far from elite, they had undergone rigorous training and operated under clear command. This allowed them to achieve synergy—more than the sum of their parts. The players had gained some insight into optimal unit coordination and how to maximize their firepower.
A zombie let out a piercing shriek like metal scraping stone. A shieldbearer braced his stance and raised his shield just in time—but a rogue arrow came out of nowhere, piercing through his back. His strength vanished instantly. The zombie knocked him aside and burst through the line, clawing a spearman in half. Its momentum carried it into a hunter, who was ripped apart as easily as paper. The hunter's mangled body struck a warrior, shattering bones with a sickening crunch.
The zombie leapt again, landing before an archer. The archer's arrows struck like thunder, but bounced off its body as if it were made of steel. With a snarl, the zombie grabbed the archer and sank its snow-white fangs into his throat. The screaming didn't even last three seconds. When the corpse was tossed aside, it was dry and shriveled.
Scenes like this kept repeating. Arrows rained from the shadows, each perfectly timed to strike during critical moments. Over a dozen men fell within moments, and the collateral damage surpassed a hundred lives.
"Who the hell is causing this? Show yourself!" a squad leader roared.
The archers fired in the direction the arrows came from—and eventually forced Liu Weian to reveal himself. A sharp-eyed hunter spotted him and shouted:
"There! Over there!"
"You, you, and you—go take him down!" the squad leader barked, pointing at three full squads—thirty men in total. They charged toward Liu Weian.
Liu Weian gave a strange howl and bolted into the darkness.
"Don't let him escape!"
The thirty men gave chase, but soon their voices faded into silence. The squad leader frowned. A sense of unease crept into his gut.
Three minutes passed. Five. Then ten. Not a single man returned.
Then—
"Aaahh!"
The squad leader's head snapped up—just in time to see an archer fall with an arrow in his back. Another cry followed as a hunter took one through the throat. Then a warrior screamed—his leg struck by an arrow, he collapsed and was torn apart by a zombie.
"You again!" the squad leader howled.
He hesitated, then gritted his teeth. "Second, third, fourth, fifth, and sixth squads—kill him! If you don't, don't bother coming back!"
"Yes, sir!"
The fifth and sixth squads were both composed entirely of archers.
The enemy had taken out three squads earlier. Clearly formidable. This time, the leader added two archer squads to flank him and suppress his movement. Let's see how far a lone archer can go now.
But reality defied his expectations. Once the five squads disappeared into the dark, there was silence. Within fifteen minutes, the enemy struck again—arrows flying like the hands of death. Every shot was fatal. Precision beyond belief.
"You three squads—go now!" he ordered, this time sending a hundred men.
He's just one archer. If he was really that powerful, he wouldn't be skulking around like a rat.
Half an hour later, arrows returned—with even more arrogance than before. Thirteen men were felled in one round. The formation fell into chaos. Freed zombies ran rampant, tearing and biting, bodies dropping like flies. The battlefield was consumed by screams.
"If you've got guts, come face me one-on-one!" the squad leader roared.
His answer was a deadly arrow. If not for his Bronze-grade boots, he'd be dead. Even so, a deep gash was left on his face.
"Vice-captain, stay and command. The rest of you, with me!" he growled through gritted teeth, sword drawn. A hundred men followed him into the night.
He moved like lightning, but the fear from that last arrow kept him close to the group. At first, they caught glimpses of the enemy's shadow. Then, after a loop around the field—they lost him.
They searched for over ten minutes. Nothing.
Another ten passed. The squad leader hesitated. He didn't dare split the team.
"Back to the front," he said bitterly.
Returning to the graveyard, he was stunned. The battlefield was in ruins. His forces were in tatters. Half had been felled by arrows, the rest torn apart by zombies. Another squad leader was already there, trying to clean up the mess.
"What the hell happened here?" he demanded.
The other leader frowned. "You tell me."
The first squad leader clenched his jaw so tightly, his teeth nearly cracked.