Within the central command tent of Yangwu Grand Barracks, candle flames flickered, while the brazier crackled and popped.
Meng Zhao had not slept that night. Dressed in a plain white short robe, his long hair hanging loose, he stood for a long while before an unfurled map depicting mountains and terrain. His gaze was deep, his brows faintly furrowed, his finger joints shifting as though calculating something.
He was not worried about today's campaign to wipe out Howling Wind Fortress. Though the vast majority of the army were inexperienced Little Whites, their innate quality was high and their foundations solid. With a fine general like Linghu Rui, proven by the Ji Prefecture Grand Barracks, leading them—and with the prepared striking the unprepared—victory was inevitable.
The only thing that left him tossing and turning was the casualty count. If the losses were too great, he might have to reassess the Yangwu Army's current caliber and lower his expectations for future battles by a few degrees.
Just as he was deep in thought, he heard a rustling sound, followed by Linghu Rui's request for an audience.
Meng Zhao returned to the desk and sat upright behind it. In a low voice, he told him to enter. Linghu Rui then strode in, clad in heavy armor and cradling a blue-black helmet under his right arm.
Only when he was about ten feet from Meng Zhao did he drop to one knee. Joy and pride mingled on his face as he said in a deep voice,
"This subordinate, Linghu Rui, pays respects to the General."
"Haha, General Linghu, rise quickly. Judging from your expression and demeanor, tonight's battle must have yielded quite a harvest, yes?"
Meng Zhao was skilled at reading faces. In truth, Linghu Rui did not need to say a word. Just