Atop Fengzhou City, the autumn wind keened mournfully, and the banners whipped wildly.
Min Zimo held the Black Iron Spear in one hand and rested the other against the cold bricks of the wall, his expression solemn.
As far as the eye could see, countless banners thrashed in the wind.
The "Peng" banner was the most numerous, while "Zhang," "Ma," "Liu," "Hu," "Lin," and countless others were no less imposing.
Led by "Tiger King" Peng Lianhu, every bandit and rebel across the Great Jing had gathered here at this moment.
Outside the city, blades and spears stood like a forest. Their shouted breaths rolled like thunder, while the shifting heads merged into a boundless black ocean that was slowly creeping toward Fengzhou.
A rough estimate put their number at no fewer than six hundred thousand.
The defenders atop the walls began breathing heavily.
Some hands trembled faintly. Some faces had gone deathly pale, their lips murmuring without producing so much as a sound.
Despair and deathly silence permeated the air. Only the rumbling thunder of the bandit army's advance pounded against every heart like a heavy drum.
"Minister."
Xu Yuncheng stepped forward, his voice thick with barely suppressed anxiety.
His official robes snapped in the wind. The face that had once carried considerable dignity was now etched with exhaustion and panic.
"Following your orders, we've sent out all the messengers. We've even released three batches of carrier pigeons."
"But... with the imperial court as it is now, where are there any troops left to deploy?"
At this, he paused, lowered his voice, and offered his counsel with great care:
"The rebel army hasn't completed its encirclement. There's still a sliver of a gap to the north."
"Minister, you're a pillar of the nation. You absolutely cannot become trapped here."
"You...