The night was still deep, moonlight like water spilling across the earth, cold with a trace of pallor.
Within the Yangwu Grand Barracks, squads of elite, formidable guards wore heavy armor and carried weapons as they conducted their routine patrols beneath the glow of bright lanterns on all sides. Their steps rang sonorously, their bearing grim and imposing, without the slightest slackness, guarding against schemers slipping into the camp to steal secrets.
Had there been a bird's-eye view from above, one would have seen that, under the arrangements of Meng Zhao, Linghu Rui, Dou Xi, and the others, patrols had been stationed throughout the camp. Even the shift-change times had been calculated with precision, ensuring seamless coverage and making the Yangwu Army camp's entire defensive system exceptionally robust.
Inside the central command tent, Meng Zhao sat behind a desk, a military treatise in hand, reading with complete absorption.
He wore a black brocade robe and a scarlet fur cloak, its sleek, lustrous coat stripped from some ferocious beast. It made him appear both imposing and noble.
Meng Zhao had never slackened when it came to learning. Not to mention how the chicken-soup literature of his previous life had once flown all over the streets, only to become internet memes later on—something he found hard to forget.
In this world, in this era, Meng Zhao likewise tirelessly pursued new knowledge and skills in order to climb higher, protect himself, and strengthen himself, broadening his horizons and solidifying his foundations.
Martial arts were indeed the foundation, but that did not mean everything beyond martial arts was worthless. A world could not possibly consist of nothing but fighting and killing, plunging into war every day. That would be far too dull.
Thus, Meng Zhao sometimes played Go, learned flower arranging, and occasionally studied