The rain had stopped,
but the sky was still gloomy. Only the wild grass on the ground shone green, brimming with unusual vitality.
Concealed beneath clumps of wild grass, puddles of all sizes lay quietly, reflecting the black clouds and daylight. In the silence, they lent the scene a distinctive rustic charm.
Zhang Yang crawled out of the tent again, both hands braced on his wooden spear. Though his body was so weak that a gust of wind could knock him down, his eyes were as dangerous and cunning as a wild wolf's.
After looking around for quite a while, he finally staggered toward a cowhide tent more than a hundred meters away.
This was one of the only three tents left in the temporary camp. There was naturally a reason they had been left behind.
Perhaps a rotting corpse was waiting inside—or perhaps something even more terrifying than death.
A few minutes later, Zhang Yang arrived before the tent. After a moment's hesitation, he chose a sturdy position and found his center of gravity, ready to advance or retreat. Only then did he angle himself aside and gently lift the tent flap with his wooden spear.
A wave of foul, rotting stench burst out. The person inside was already dead, the corpse highly decomposed, with white maggots writhing unchecked across it.
But Zhang Yang still carefully examined every corner of the tent.
"This was a strong man. The leather armor on his body, the sword and shield beside him, the calluses at the base of his thumb, and the way his weapons were arranged all prove that he was a seasoned warrior."
"His wound is on his left arm. I can't tell what weapon caused it, but at least he received proper bandaging and treatment before he died."
"So