Western Regions in Turmoil

Jiang Hao went to inspect the other wounded. Their injuries were not too serious; some had arrows through their arms or thighs. Nothing difficult—just bandage them up.

The fellow whose thigh had been pierced saw that Jiang Hao had not used a talisman on him and asked curiously, "Commander, why didn't you use one on me too?"

"Talismans are a secret method for invoking immortals to save those at death's door. They consume an enormous amount of spiritual power and cannot be used lightly. An injury like yours does not warrant one. Rest and you'll recover," Jiang Hao said.

The man immediately nodded, grinning. "Then next time, I'll make sure to get more seriously injured. I want to see what it feels like to use a talisman too."

Jiang Hao really wanted to kick him.

Are you fucking masochist?

If treatment comes too late, you bastard, you'll be dead.

After dealing with the wounded, Jiang Hao went to the riverbank to wash his hands. Looking over the camp, he decided to stay there for the night. The tents had already been pitched, saving him a great deal of trouble.

Kill your men, eat your rations, sleep in your tents, ride your warhorses, use your weapons and armor—did that count as an upgraded version of cuckoo taking over a magpie's nest?

Jiang Hao felt no ripples in his heart over killing those dozen or so Xiongnu soldiers. That was simply how things were in the desert: the strong preyed on the weak. They were enemies, and fighting to the death whenever they met had long become normal. Hatred had seeped into their bones.

If the Xiongnu had discovered them while they were camped, they would have done the same—raided the camp, killed them, and seized their supplies.

Just then, several shouts