The masked man looked at his leg, knowing he was doomed and couldn't escape. So many brothers were caught up, shattered into pieces. This time was a failure too.
Arrows continued to rain down; the entire tavern had turned into a pincushion, with not a single corner left untouched, even the doorstep was littered with arrows.
"Rip!"
The sound rang out as the masked man tore off a piece of cloth, tying it around the wound on his leg. Without doing so, he would bleed endlessly, a slow death through loss of blood.
"Go." The General commanded.
With so many arrows, even if one doesn't die, they'd shed a layer of skin. The soldiers cautiously approached the tavern, gently pushing open the door.
"Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh!"
Arrows appeared, striking seven soldiers directly. The remaining soldiers hurriedly retreated and resumed the arrow attack.
The General saw that capturing alive was impossible.
