Time goes back to two minutes ago.
In the central plaza area of the underground base, Yang Ming stood in a corner of the plaza holding the hilt of two light swords, gazing slightly absentmindedly at a broken wall.
The plaza was very spacious, with no problem accommodating ten thousand people gathering, and the ceiling had a glowing dome. Everywhere were blast marks from fierce battles, and hundreds, nearly a thousand, mutilated bodies of terrorists were left scattered around.
Clearly, Yang Ming had just fought a quick elimination battle here, wiping out the combat forces stationed by the organization on the middle level.
Yang Ming's military uniform was stained with some blood, and his military boots had been dyed dark red.
At this moment, on the level he was on, apart from the non-combatants hiding in various building facilities, there were no more enemies.
He was pondering a question.
These non-combatants, to kill or not to kill.
