Wang Ye's fist crushed Ziyi's nose, then, circling behind, his hands gripped its head, muscles in his arms flexing, forcibly twisting it 240 degrees.
After killing four Ziyi, Wang Ye's physical strength was reaching its limit.
Under normal circumstances, the stamina of the demon marine corps wouldn't be so poor, but he had a penetrating wound in his abdomen, a section of intestines crudely stuffed inside, simply bandaged, dragging this half-crippled body to explode in a burst, already at the end of his rope.
Wang Ye glanced at the arc knife fallen on the ground, the wide blade already broken, taking it along would be pointless, so he collected some magazines and grenades from the corpses of the Ziyi unit, picked up a rifle, and prepared to leave.
