Plop!

The Undead at the front was hit by a rolling pin and fell to the ground.

Its body started to wither visibly.

"Damn it! It's this thing again!"

Larkin Davenport instinctively took a step back.

Unstoppable!

Although he knew the weapon's effect was limited, the initial strikes could still kill.

He looked up in the direction from which the rolling pin had flown.

Nothing.

"Who's there! Who's pretending to be a ghost!" Larkin Davenport hid behind the Undead Tribe, shouting loudly.

There was no response.

"Fine! Since you act without virtue, don't blame me for being ruthless!" Larkin Davenport said, but his eyes continued to scan around.

Nothing changed.

It was very quiet.

The rolling pin seemed to have appeared out of thin air.

Even more strangely, the sword cultivators were also carefully observing, clearly unaware of what had happened.

Who could it be?

Demarco Mount's remnants?

However.

There was only one way out, the city gate was tightly held by the Undead, and no one could get in.

In broad daylight, it was somewhat eerie.

Suddenly.

A sound of footsteps could be heard.

The doors of the City Lord's Mansion were pushed open.

A group of people, dressed variously, looked like villagers.

They held tools in their hands, leisurely walking out from inside.

Lazily, at ease.

"Who are you! How did you get in here!"

The Tennyson Cultivator Leader was taken aback.

So many people!

They controlled the entrance, and there were still sword cultivators patrolling inside the City Lord's Mansion; how could they have let dozens of people sneak in?

This question confused Larkin Davenport even further.

Either the Tennyson Cultivator Leader was acting, or these people weren't from the Manor.

Seeing the Tennyson Cultivator Leader's bewildered look, Larkin Davenport believed these people were unrecognizable to him.

If it was all an act, the Tennyson Cultivator Leader deserved an award.

"Who are we? We don't even know." The man leading them wore coarse linen clothes, and there was a hole in his straw shoes.

Not acting.

They must be villagers from some place.

But in this day and age!

A pair of hiking shoes costs nothing; why would anyone still wear straw shoes?

"Uh... you wanted to go inside earlier, right?" the leader walked over to Larkin Davenport, bending down to retrieve the pitch-black rolling pin from a dried-up corpse.

"You killed my people?" Larkin Davenport didn't answer his question; he instinctively placed his hand on his waist.

Hundreds of Undead surrounded them immediately, their eyes filled with hostility.

"Yes, I killed him because he wanted to go inside," the leader wiped the rolling pin, chuckling: "Anyone who goes in will die. These sword cultivators trying to enter will die too."

Is that a threat?

What could a group of villagers possibly do to block his thousands of people?

Larkin Davenport sneered contemptuously, pointing to the dried corpse on the ground. "You killed my people; you must pay with your life!"

So it was thought to be an expert, but they were just a group of villagers skilled at ambushing.

What could they accomplish?

"Understood." The villager leader turned, speaking to his companions behind him: "Still not enough of them dead to make them afraid. Brothers, get to work!"

"Let's go!"

The leader planted the rolling pin directly into the ground!

Then, quickly shifted aside!

The Undead were initially startled, but soon found it laughable.

"I think they're all mad, and severely ill. Kill them, kill them all."

Larkin Davenport waved his hand, his inner fury having nowhere to go.

"Whoever stands in the way, take them down! Search thoroughly, he must find Mr. Han Caldwell."

After speaking, he watched as events unfolded.

The Undead drew their swords, ready to rush in.

But suddenly!

A villager wielding a large hammer walked over, and smashed it down on the rolling pin!

Clang!

A loud bang.

It hurt everyone's eardrums!

Feeling insufficient power, the burly man switched hands.

From a small hammer to a big one!

Another smash!

Clang!

This time, the rolling pin sank halfway in.

Without any deformation, its black color wasn't even scratched.

"What the hell! Kill them all!"

At Larkin Davenport's command, the Undead were poised to rush forward.

"Have you been feeling weak lately?" the leader glanced at the one with the hammer, eyes filled with disdain.

He took the iron hammer and smashed it down on the rolling pin!

Clang!

A booming sound!

The Undead knelt to the ground in agony, clutching their ears, wailing nonstop.

Their senses were many times those of ordinary people.

Thus, the pain they endured was also many times greater.

But before they could catch their breath from the torment, the man hammered again!

Clang!

The rolling pin was fully embedded.

"Old Four, your turn!" He handed the hammer back to his companion, stepping aside.

An elderly man with a stooped back walked out from the crowd; he was Old Four.

Old Four's hands were unlike the others; he had no tool.

Or rather, his tool was his own body parts.

Under the gaze of all, Old Four undid his pants and urinated on the rolling pin.

The Undead were both in pain, covering their ears, and looking wide-eyed, incredulous!

What did relieving oneself mean at such a critical moment?

Yet something strange happened.

The rolling pin, drenched in urine, began to expand!

The ground cracked gradually, as if stressed to its limit!

"Old Eight, it's your turn!"

Old Four pulled up his pants and quickly left.

A guy eating a burger stepped out from the crowd.

"Stop pretending to be a ghost! Kill them!"

Larkin Davenport had enough!

He was about to go mad!

Only by killing these weirdos could he quell his inner rage!

Old Eight wiped his mouth, chuckled.

Then suddenly stomped down!

Boom!

The ground erupted with tens of rolling pins!

These pins, pitch black, shot up from beneath the Undead without warning!

Piercing right through their bodies!

"Ah..."

As screams echoed, the Undead instantly turned into dried corpses.

The rolling pins seemed to possess magic, retracting once more.

"Rise!"

Old Eight stomped again!

Pffft!

The ground was fractured beyond recognition!

Pins shot up from the ground!

Indiscriminately exterminating the Undead!

Boom!

A series of thunderous booms!

Dozens, hundreds of rolling pins began to run wild beneath the Undead's feet!

"Brothers, the harvest season is here!" the leader said, bursting forward!

Ripping an Undead apart with bare hands!

Throwing the corpse onto the rolling pin!

As expected, the Undead instantly became dried corpses.

The number of rolling pins on the street was increasing!

Now there were several hundred!

Spreading out along the street, endlessly.

Someone wielded a fork, someone carried a kitchen knife!

Bang!

An Undead didn't have time to react before being smashed on the head with a chopping board, landing them on the rolling pin.

Encountering it meant death.

Shovels, sticks, steel whips, and even bare fists.

These villagers in disguise kept grabbing Undead, throwing them onto those seemingly blunt, but very sharp, rolling pins.

As long as they touched them, it meant death.

In less than a minute, the Undead had lost hundreds.

Larkin Davenport retreated frantically, being careful not to touch the rolling pins.

It was truly uncanny!

But suddenly, someone grabbed his shoulder from behind.

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