Gradually, the ground began to tremble, a thunderous rumble rolling in from afar. Even before seeing the enemy’s appearance, the overwhelming momentum was already pressing down, making it hard to breathe.

William Carter was no fool; of course, he wouldn’t insist on staying at this point. Without waiting for the middle-aged man to pull him, he grabbed the man’s wrist in return and took off running.

As the large contingent of White cavalry charged in, the tide of battle became even more one-sided. The Black soldiers gave up resisting and fled in droves.

This run was a race against death itself. Many soldiers threw away their black helmets, armor, and weapons, fleeing like a flood bursting through a dam.

William Carter dragged the middle-aged man along, running with the main Black force. The further he ran, the more stifled he felt. He hadn’t provoked anyone, so why had he gotten into such trouble? First, he inexplicably woke up in a forest, then got swept into this cold-weapon-era battle for no reason. What on earth was going on?

Even now, he still hadn’t figured out why he’d ended up in this situation.

But getting dragged in was easy; getting out was much harder.

You could say that the moment he put on the Black soldier’s uniform, his fate had already changed, setting him on a thrilling and extraordinary path.

The escape continued, with enemies in relentless pursuit behind them. After a while, William Carter lost track of how far he’d run; he only remembered that the middle-aged man was running out of strength and couldn’t keep up. So, William Carter simply hoisted the man onto his own shoulder.

William Carter was thin and wiry, yet even carrying someone, he wasn’t any slower than those around him. Unlike the others, he wasn’t gasping for breath or drenched in sweat. He sprinted like an arrow, occasionally overtaking other fleeing soldiers. Only then did he realize this wasn’t just a battle of a few hundred people—there were thousands of Black soldiers fleeing alongside him.

As the saying goes, “in panic, there’s no time to choose the path.” This mass of fleeing Black soldiers was a perfect example.

No one knew who led the way, but when they passed through a mountain pass, they found they could go no further. The valley was a dead end, circular in shape, with only one entrance and no other exits. By the time they thought to turn back, it was too late—the entrance was already tightly blocked by countless White soldiers. Not even a mouse could squeeze through.

Over three thousand Black deserters were trapped in this dead valley, while more and more White soldiers gathered at the entrance. From a distance, it was a sea of white—at least fifty thousand strong.

The one who led the way deserved a thousand deaths! William Carter glanced around the valley, cursing silently in his heart.

The valley was deep, surrounded by sheer cliffs, as if split by a giant axe. The pitch-black cliff faces were smooth as mirrors, with not a blade of grass in sight. Even top mountaineers would struggle to climb out, let alone now, with no climbing tools at hand.

William Carter was someone who could stay calm under immense pressure, but now he couldn’t help but break out in a cold sweat.

Looking around at the Black soldiers, despair was written all over their faces. No wonder—they were hopelessly outnumbered, most had no armor or weapons, and the wounded were countless. Now, trapped in a dead end, almost no one held out hope of survival.

“Gulu... gulu gulu...”

Suddenly, a loud voice called out from the mouth of the valley, clear even from a distance.

The shout stirred the lifeless Black soldiers into a commotion. Many slowly straightened up and walked toward the entrance. Just then, a burly man in a black general’s robe let out a furious roar, shouting at those heading for the entrance. The other soldiers sitting on the ground looked on with contempt.

The soldiers who had started toward the entrance hung their heads in shame and slowly sat back down.

William Carter didn’t know what they were saying, but he could guess: the White side was calling for their surrender, and some on the Black side were tempted, but the general stopped them.

This general had real spirit—not the type to cling to life out of fear! Thinking this, William Carter couldn’t help but look at him a few more times. The general looked to be in his thirties, with a rough, fierce face, covered in blood, making him appear even more ferocious and terrifying.

William Carter withdrew his gaze and turned to look at the middle-aged man beside him.

The man noticed William Carter’s look, shook his head with a bitter smile, and said something softly. William Carter couldn’t understand, but from his tone, he could sense the sadness and despair.

What would the enemy do to them next? William Carter frowned, thinking silently.

Seeing that the enemies in the valley weren’t moving, another shout came from the entrance, this time with a harsh, icy tone—a final warning.

“Roar—”

The leading general suddenly turned and let out a great roar. At his call, all the soldiers stood up and grabbed their weapons.

Was it time for a final battle? William Carter smiled bitterly as he stood with the others. He had no idea what kind of bad luck had landed him in this peril, inexplicably caught in such a dangerous situation. Even now, he didn’t know where he was or who these soldiers around him really were.