Luo Yao returned to the highland camp with the mixed grain bought with all their warhorses, grain adulterated with sand and bran, his steps heavy. Before more than three thousand mouths, that little bit of food was light as a feather, yet heavy as the last straw.
The sentry posts around the camp were almost deserted. Only a few Veteran Soldiers wrapped in rags dozed numbly. The watch had long since become an empty form.
Several soldiers were sneaking back in from outside the camp, clutching struggling living things in their arms—sheep they had stolen from nearby. When they saw Luo Yao, there was no panic in their eyes, only cold, calm indifference. Luo Yao's steps paused, but in the end he said nothing. He merely waved weakly for his personal guards to carry the grain to the center of the camp. He knew that any attempt to stop them now might set this pile of dry kindling ablaze.
In the center of the camp, several cracked pots boiled suspiciously colored mush, giving off the stink of scorching and mildew. A few officers sat around the fires, armor askew, eye sockets sunken. When they saw the pitifully few sacks of grain behind Luo Yao, and the empty reins in his hand, the emotions they had been holding down exploded.
"Bang!" A scar-faced battalion commander suddenly snapped the wooden stick in his hand and roared, "Thirteen good horses that could still go into battle! And all we got was this little bit of slop even pigs wouldn't eat?!"
Another officer spat and ground his teeth. "Those Field City bastards! Bloodsuckers! We came thousands of miles to risk our lives, and fine, they won't open the gates—but they can't even bear to give us a bite to eat! They're slaughtering us like