Orc Tyrant

Suddenly, Grak's communicator rang.

"Boss."

A voice told him that this was his capable subordinate and deputy Crowe.

"I tried to use a knife."

"is it?"

"Rush up, those idiots will collapse at the touch."

Glak smiled.

"Open the whole!!!"

He yelled, locked his gun buckle to his belt, and drew his battle axe.

Double-sided blade, power-driven, made of waste city refined blue steel, with grumpy patterns etched along the blood trough.

He called it the tearer.

He did not wait to see that his orders were carried out, so he rushed out of the bunker, and bullets shot continuously on the front of his chest and on his leg armor.

"Waaaagh!!!"

He leaped up to the colonnade in two big steps, swiftly, lowered his weight and pointed his axe upward.

Glak saw the human soldiers, hiding between the huge metal pillars, shooting him continuously.

He could see their faces, pale and frightened.

Glak saw the astonishment on the faces of the shrimps who were about to be sacked by him. He heard the bodyguards following him and felt the joy of being Ok.

That guy is right.

Attacking here with guns is time-consuming and laborious. Those bunkers are effective enough to reduce the firepower of guns and can withstand sword attacks. In order to protect the industrial facilities here, heavy artillery cannot be used.

Bayonets, such as polearms, may not work well.

But it is not, and it will never be, a battle axe swung by Oak's arm.

The armor shattered.

In the sound of glass cracking, the sharp fragments of armor will fly into the air within a microsecond after each heavy blow, and then evaporate without a trace.

First the armor, then the body in the armor, first the shell, and then the flesh and blood of the human being.

Blood gushed from the wound, or sprayed into the morning sky, or sprayed on the huge metal pillars between Glak's body and the pillars.

Each swipe will cause a visceral explosion, and a cloud of scarlet smoke will be sprayed into the air, as if a pack of blood was blown out.

No matter what advantages the Taiyang garrison had, they have lost these advantages. When the red butchers attacked them with the ancient combat methods, everything they had designed became meaningless.

Less than five minutes after Glak took the lead in the charge, the Gough Army opened the entrance to the industrial zone.

"Waaaagh!!!"

Grak smashed into the crowd, and thirty executioners followed him-these were the most terrifying and powerful champions in the Gough Army. Each was the only victor who had survived countless conflicts and killings.

Every executioner must be at least three meters high, shoulder-wide and strong, like a cube. At the same time, there are few protective armors on his body, and his body is covered with dark red scales. This is the blood of the enemy they killed. The traces left behind.

The huge decapitating knife was held high in the air, behind the hilt was a string of pale skulls, and their roar was enough to overwhelm tens of thousands of boys.

They rushed to the end of the grand passage and came under the gate of a steel factory.

The defenders gathered in the shadows under the huge hanging doors, preparing to defend the entrance of the factory.

The air was full of stray bullets, like a scorching rain, and the fire and bullets were particularly dazzling in the dark and wide passage.

The boys bowed their heads, raised their weapons, against the gunfire, and ran into the militia like a mob.

The defenders fell one after another. Although their bunkers were working, the huge impact still made them roll and collide on the ground.

Hundreds of bodies crowded together, like rippling water.

There are corpses everywhere under their feet, their fingers are still bent, and the weapons in their hands are shooting aimlessly.

The executioners went to the depths, they pushed hard with their shoulders, and they slashed and stabbed with knives.

Soon, the shattered corpses of the militiamen spilled out of their crushed bunker, and blood splashed around in the sound of wailing.

The blood-stirred decapitator did not stagnate, swinging at other people and picking them up into the air. Their bodies rotated and rolled over the crowd, and then slammed their compatriots on the neck and shoulders.

Some people died standing up, their bodies did not fall because of the crowd's pushing, and blood ran down the mirror-like aisles.

A huge pool of blood flowed from under the fighting crowd, rushing in all directions along the grooves etched on the steel plate, glowing in the firelight, and scarlet in the shadow, flooding the bottom of the drain, causing it to float. His helmet looks like an island.

Most of the sounds that Glak heard were the shocking impacts he made as he chopped.

The ripper's grip had been stained red, a plume of blood was emerging from the power-filled jagged teeth, his axe arm was stained with blood, and the blood dripped along the corners of his armor.

The lines on his hand armor were constantly rubbed, and debris covered with blood and brain was scattered.

Behind all this is a kind of extreme happiness.

Crowe surpassed him.

He held the mace high, split the armor with a fierce slash, split the waist, hips and ribs, and split the enemy's body in two.

This is a destructive, monotonous mechanical battle, more like doing farm work than fighting.

He is harvesting a road to the depths of the factory among the enemy groups. He is harvesting his crops, like a worker working in the field, one after another, swinging his mace.

On the left side of Glak, the neuroboy Toman is more like playing sports.

His metal rods are relatively long, and he teased the militiamen who were constantly assaulted by him, as if trying to fight them and test their combat skills.

But no one met his challenge. They were all busy stumbling away from his slaughter-like assault route. What kid likes to use his strength to lift enemies to the sky, and then smash them to the ground in front of his feet. on.

Grak could hear him yelling at his enemies, encouraging them to fight him, and he complained contemptuously about their attempts to escape.

In the end, whether facing him or facing him, he killed them all.

As for Grack himself, he prefers the textbook assault method-the tomahawk is raised to his chest and used to push, which is cruel and ruthless. It is like rolling a heavy fruit into a group of toy soldiers. Then watched them being knocked down and crushed.

The assault was so fierce, a brown blood mist rose from the front, floating in the sun.

The troops of the Legion followed closely in the passage behind them, and the deep lake of blood was swelling outward, and there was a certain pressure in it that continued to spread.

The corpse lying on the smooth polished floor was spinning end to end in the blood stream, like driftwood trapped in an overflowing river.