Camp Whistle

Further away, several pillars of fire soared into the sky like raging red dragons.

Under the might of the red dragons, all the soldiers of the Great Horn Army were screaming hysterically, running around like headless flies. Their eyes were bloodshot, and they lost control of their minds as they drew out their blood-stained weapons. They slashed viciously at their comrades, who had gone through life and death with them during the day.

Their screams turned into torrents that surged into Meng Chao's ears faster than the chaotic momentum, making his face as ugly as the witch doctors'.

"Ying Xiao!"

Meng Chao's scalp and palm turned numb.

Ying Xiao was a situation that no commander of the battlefield in the Middle Ages would want to encounter.

The cold-weapon army in the Middle Ages did not have scientific and effective management methods. They relied on whipping, torture, and even the threat of death to exercise high-pressure rule.