Hmm, on the battlefield, this overly burly general who was still striking poses and showing off his classical Chinese suddenly whipped his head like a lion, and his fierce gaze instantly landed on the dumbfounded Henry Clark.

Just as Henry Clark was considering whether he should clutch his chest with both hands and scream for help, or perhaps cry out “hero!” and plead for his life by claiming he had an eighty-year-old mother above and a newborn child below, the general instead knelt down before him, declaring himself guilty of a capital crime. However, he said that even though he had killed the scoundrel Wang Zhen, he did not regret it even in the face of death, and was willing to die to prove his loyalty to the Emperor of the Ming. After saying this, the general picked up his massive iron hammer and was about to charge into the crowd.

At that moment, a flash of inspiration finally snapped Henry Clark out of his terror, and he managed to call out to the general just in time. Thus, under the protection of this general named Stephen Grant, whose martial prowess was off the charts, and a group of loyal guards, they fought their way through a bloody path and stumbled up to this small mound.

“How long have we been running?” Henry Clark let out a deep sigh, swallowed his parched throat that felt like it was about to catch fire, and his voice was as hoarse as a rusty saw. Everywhere his helpless gaze landed, there were endless flickers of fire and blood, and the cold gleam of blades would flash by like meteors, followed by soul-chilling screams of agony.

At first, every shrill scream made Henry Clark feel as if a saw was grinding away at his nerves. He simply hypnotized himself, treating all of this as the set of a blockbuster movie, and himself as just an extra on the scene.

Maybe the self-hypnosis worked, or maybe he just got numb from hearing it so much. In any case, Henry Clark had gone from barely being able to walk and vomiting as he went, to being able to jog lightly. Just now, when he saw half a head flying by, he even found himself recalling Beckham’s classic banana kick in his mind...

It seems that everything is precious only when it’s rare; after seeing enough killing, you just get numb to it. After all, anyone who watched and listened to a massive brawl of over two hundred thousand people for several hours would develop serious visual and auditory numbness.

“If I tell my students about what I’m experiencing now after I get back, I wonder if anyone would believe me. Most of them would probably just think I’m pulling their leg again, right?” Henry Clark looked at the shallow wound on his left forearm and couldn’t help but mock himself inwardly. That happened about half an hour ago, when a Mongol centurion—or maybe a female commander—killed two of the guards protecting him, broke into the defensive circle, and swung a scimitar at his head.

At the time, all he could do was instinctively duck, hunch over, and raise his hands in a thoroughly embarrassing pose, without even a shred of courage to fight back. Luckily, it was Stephen Grant who saved him in time; otherwise, it would have been much worse than just a faint scratch on his forearm.

He might have become the shortest-lived transmigrator in history, not even having the chance to scrawl “Henry Clark was here” in the mud of five or six hundred years ago. The mischievous bastards at the Time-Space Administration would probably make a joke out of him, telling those reserve transmigrators still in the preparation stage—after being struck by lightning or hit by a car or whatever—that he was a classic cautionary tale, nailed to the pillar of shame in the great tide of transmigration.

“Your Majesty, we have already left the main camp for a full two hours. In another quarter of an hour or so, it will be completely dark,” the burly general named Stephen Grant replied respectfully to Henry Clark with a cupped-fist salute. “By then, our chances of escaping from here will be much greater.”

“Your Majesty, please have some water.” The eunuch who had been gasping for breath on the ground was now kneeling before Henry Clark, holding out a half-full sheepskin water pouch.

Hearing the sloshing of the water, Henry Clark, whose mouth and tongue were already parched, instinctively reached out to take it. However, the longing gazes from all around him shone like searchlights, making Henry Clark’s hand, which was already gripping the pouch, pause for a moment.

“You’ve protected me all this way, fighting hard to keep me safe. I’m sure you’re all thirsty too. General Stephen Grant, you and these guards should share this water,” Henry Clark—or rather, George Washington—stood up with the water pouch and handed it to Stephen Grant behind him.

Stephen Grant was stunned at first, looking at the pouch that was only half full, and couldn’t help but swallow subconsciously. But what came out of his mouth was the opposite. “Your Majesty, I am not thirsty. Please, you drink it.”

“I order you to drink it. That’s an order.” George Washington licked his lips, glared at Stephen Grant, and his hoarse voice deepened.

“Your Majesty, please, you drink it. We really aren’t thirsty.” Another guard captain came over respectfully from the other side.

Looking at these people, George Washington couldn’t help but sigh. In later generations, this kind of behavior would probably be compared to being a living Lei Feng, and the outstanding youths of the harmonious society of the twenty-first century would call this kind of thing being a fool, or say your brain had been kicked by a donkey.