Morale Wavering, Chen Wuya Rallies

The instant the bead of blood fell onto the sand, the ground shuddered again.

The scorching sensation of Misaligned Force still circulated in Chen Wuya's palm. He did not look up, yet he sensed the wind around him had changed. Not its direction, nor its strength, but its sound—the shouts from distant drills had fallen quiet, the night patrols' footsteps had slowed, even the crackling of the campfires seemed to have been pressed down.

He slowly withdrew his hand, brushing his fingertips across the hem of his rough cloth clothes to wipe away the last trace of moisture.

Just then, a young soldier passing by stopped short. Staring at the fading ring of ripples on the ground, he murmured, "The... ground moved just now?"

No one answered him.

But those words were like a stone cast into stagnant water, sending ripples spreading outward in ring after ring. Some quietly stopped adjusting their scabbards. Some instinctively took half a step back. More simply stared at the sand in silence, as though afraid of disturbing something.

"I heard that cart of the foreign tribes can spew fire. One ram into a city wall, and it collapses," another voice said softly. "Our tents wouldn't even leave ashes behind."

"The scouts reported last night that the City-Burning Cart will reach the front lines at the third watch," a third person chimed in, his voice hollow. "When that happens, what are we supposed to use to stop it?"

The murmurs grew denser, yet no one raised their voice. This fear did not erupt—it seeped soundlessly into everyone's bones like fog. Some lowered their heads to check whether their leg wraps were secure. Some repeatedly rubbed the hilts of their blades. Others turned away and silently dragged their packs a little farther into the corner.

Chen