Tromp, tromp, tromp… Clatter, clatter… The sounds of the romping skeletal tigers and the march of Yin soldiers resounded throughout the underworld as the 100,000-strong army forged forward without stopping at all.

The Beacon of Light painted a river of blood right across the canopy of the skies above them, indicating the direction of their march. Nobody said a single word. A soft nethergale swept by, gently tousling the great banners of their army that had a single word written on them - “Yang”. They could even smell the faint stench of blood in the air.

They had embarked on this expedition over three months ago, and they were now on the cusp of the first war for expansion in the history of the new Hell. A thousand Black Armored Troops marched ahead as the vanguard of the entire contingent. Zhao Seven ran his hand slowly across the hilt of his ancient sword, while the fires in his heart continued to rage with passion.

How long has it been?

When was the last time I’d participated in such a war that would be recorded in the annals of history?

The Black Armored Troops had perished together with the Tang Dynasty, and he had been thirsting for such action for a long time now. In fact, it even felt as though he had been in deep slumber all this while, only to finally rouse up to the call of war.

He couldn’t help but glance around at his comrades-in-arms. These were the same few warriors who had been recalled from the long flowing rivers of history for a greater purpose. There was neither fear nor thoughts of retreat written on their pale faces. The only thing that existed in their hearts was an unrelenting will to do battle....