After a victorious battle, each general seemed to have his own way of handling the aftermath.
The Earl of North Border liked to host barbecues on the spot.
Li Fusheng enjoyed eating steamed buns soaked in human blood amidst mountains of corpses and seas of blood.
Tian Wujing, however, simply sat atop his Pixiu, seemingly detached from everything unfolding before him.
Indeed, compared to leading a two hundred thousand-strong army for thousands of miles to shatter half of Jin State's domain, what had just transpired could only be considered a minor skirmish.
The wild people had lost. They had lost utterly and completely, without any fight left in them. If they couldn't win, they simply couldn't win.
At Que Mu's feet lay many corpses—those of Yan people, and those of the wild warriors who had sworn to die protecting him.
Angda was already dead, having fulfilled his vow.
