Rustle, rustle, rustle.
That was the sound of sweeping snow.
It was also the sound of sweeping blood.
That sound had echoed beside the ears of the people of Feng City all night, and even at dawn, the rustling had still not stopped.
To sweep away the deep snow covering the entire city must have been an extremely difficult task, right?
To sweep away the blood that had soaked the entire city, as though it had filled every crack between every flagstone, must have been hundreds, thousands of times harder than sweeping snow, surely?
The ambush had failed, and the great battle had come to an end.
Lu Wuyong had surrendered, and Feng City had changed hands.
Yet between those two simple lines were piled the blood and corpses of countless innocent soldiers.
When a general achieved success, countless others withered through the ages. The ones who withered most easily were always the small fry with no status or background.
Li Mu Yang had woken long ago and was quietly listening to the rustling sound outside the window.
He liked this feeling, because it reminded him of life in that little city in Jiangnan.
It had been the same back then. On a freezing winter day blanketed in white snow, he had lain in his warm little nest, listening to the rustling sound of his mother, Luo Qi, sweeping the snow from the courtyard with a broom. The fragrance of freshly cooked rice porridge drifted up from downstairs, his father, Li Yan, was honing his arm strength in the courtyard, and Li Sinian was singing a tuneless song in the room next door. It had made one feel that the years were peaceful and life held no regrets.
Li Mu Yang missed Jiangnan. He missed life in Jiangnan.
If it