While the Yan people celebrated the Wanfu Festival, in the King's Tent of the Wild People's army, a thin-faced man sat on a couch made from Snow Wolf pelts. He gently fingered a scar on his face, his eyes reflecting a thoughtful expression.
He was the king of the Wild People. It was difficult to determine his age from his appearance because he looked the same as he did over ten years ago, and he still looked the same now, over ten years later.
Even Angda, who had once adventured across the lands with him, already showed the frost of age at his temples. For the King, however, time seemed to have stopped.
The Yan people have arrived. Que Mu and Angda must have fallen in battle.
The King extended his hand, picked up the teacup before him, and took a sip of the cold tea.
The tea was of poor quality, a preference of the military leaders in Beifeng Prefecture. It was bitter and even somewhat scraped the throat, much like the sensation the wind and sand of the North gave people.
