In late spring, Bozhou should be a time of blooming mountain flowers, yet Yang Yinglong's military camp seemed shrouded in gloom.
Outside the leather tents, copper bells hung on withered tree branches swung without wind, emitting a teeth-grinding creaking sound.
When the news of Yin Jiuniang's death reached them, the entire camp fell into silence, pierced only by the sporadic sound of hooves in the distance, which strained everyone's nerves even further.
Inside the central army tent, the tallow torches illuminated Yang Yinglong's single eye, turning it fiery red. The rebel leader stared at the sheepskin map on the table, his knuckles whitened with pressure, having crumpled the map's edges deeply with his grip.
