A strange scene unfolded beside the pitch-black camp.
A group of dead men, all bearing various injuries and looking horrifying in the bleak lamplight and howling wilderness wind, enthusiastically—even excitedly—surrounded Lu Xin and escorted him toward the distant tents amid lively chatter.
Along the way, Lu Xin saw traces of fierce fighting everywhere, with bloodstains scattered across the ground.
Even the tents were splattered with large patches of blood, while severed limbs and chunks of flesh lay scattered around them.
"Mr. Lone Soldier, please sit."
The captain had originally wanted to invite Lu Xin into the tent, but Lu Xin smilingly refused.
So the captain diligently brought out a portable canvas chair and set it up for Lu Xin outside the tent.
A severed hand lay beneath the chair.
Lu Xin glanced at it and calmly kicked it aside.
After sitting down, Lu Xin found himself surrounded by people.
Every one of them bore horrifying wounds. Some had lost an arm, with ragged flesh jutting from the stump. Others had lost a leg, thick blood dripping from the severed limb. They could barely stand upright, relying on their arms draped over their comrades' shoulders.
Having lost so much blood, their faces were deathly pale. Some even had a bluish-gray complexion.
That complexion gave their enthusiastic smiles an indescribably eerie quality.
"What happened to you?"
After a moment of silence, Lu Xin smiled and asked the man who had lost a leg.
The man seemed confused and cast Lu Xin a puzzled look.
His eyes had already dried out and dulled, so Lu Xin inferred the subtle expression from the slight lift of his chin.
Lu Xin gave him a concerned smile and said, "You seem to be having trouble walking. You nearly fell just now."
"Ah..."
The man seemed embarrassed.