Luo Yao's eyes were bloodshot as he stared fixedly at Golden Wheatstack Fortress, which teetered ahead amid smoke and fire.
After several hours of ferocious assault, the fortress that had once symbolized his endless humiliation was already covered in wounds. Many sections of its walls had collapsed beneath the heavy bombardment of Cannon fire and the soldiers' frenzied chiseling, exposing the pale, panicked faces of the defenders behind them.
War cries, wails, and the crack of splitting stone blended together, battering everyone's eardrums. His rebel troops, their eyes reddened by hatred and the desire to survive, were like a wolf pack that had scented blood, madly scaling the breaches and Cloud Ladders. Whenever they were driven back, even more quickly surged forward.
He could see that fat figure atop the castle tower—Count Kraft. Though the distance was still great, Luo Yao could practically make out the savage expression on the man's face, a grotesque mixture of terror and despair.
This was the man—this greedy, stupid, cruel noble—who had taken everything from him, who had turned him from a kingdom general into a homeless cur, who had trampled his dignity and hope into the mud.
The flames of vengeance burned wildly in his chest, nearly consuming him whole. He could already see it: after the castle fell, he would personally drag Kraft down from the high tower and make him repay his blood debt in the cruelest way possible.
The soldiers under his command had also killed until their eyes were red. Breaking this fortress meant food, treasure, women, and the chance to vent their long-simmering hatred for the noble class.
Inside the fortress, Count Kraft had long since sweated through his clothes, his splendid brocade robe smeared with dust and spattered blood. Brandishing a longsword, he shouted himself hoarse as