News traveled even faster than the defeated soldiers.
Barely two days after the Battle of Cross Ridge ended, every city and town in Cloud Province was already abuzz with it.
Teahouses and taverns, streets and marketplaces, sect stations and merchant caravans—everywhere, people were discussing that earth-shaking rout of one hundred thousand against thirty thousand.
In a teahouse, a storyteller slapped the table and declared with vivid gestures, "Xiao Jin wielded a blood-colored demon blade. The moment its blade light emerged, all grass and trees within a hundred paces withered!"
"He charged alone into the enemy formation as though entering uninhabited land, beheading seventeen allied generals in succession."
"Oh, give it a rest."
Someone beside him snickered and cut him off.
"Were you on that battlefield? You make it sound like you saw it with your own eyes."
The storyteller glared.
"My third uncle's neighbor's son's cousin was a cook in Chiyan Valley's Death Warriors camp. He escaped death and ran back alive!"
"He said that when General Xiao Jin, the Northern Suppressor, brought down his blade, a trench three zhang deep appeared in the ground, filled entirely with blood."
"Enough, enough." The listeners waved their hands, though there was little amusement on their faces.
Exaggeration was one thing, but the fact that thirty thousand men had pierced through one hundred thousand was right there for all to see. There was no hiding from it.
When the news reached the major subordinate Prefecture Cities of Cloud Province, the reactions varied.
In a grain shop on the eastern side of the city, the fat shopkeeper doubled the price of his hoarded grain overnight. When his clerk asked why, the shopkeeper wiped away cold sweat and said in a low voice:
"What do you know? The allied army has lost. Those great sects