A squad of Tufang soldiers marched deep into the Year Wasteland.
The old general walked beside the Devil Master's corpse, feeling both sorrowful and relieved.
In this campaign, Tufang Country had deployed ten camps. The largest had more than eight thousand men, the smallest more than five hundred. The entire army numbered over twenty-three thousand.
Five camps had been ambushed in the wasteland, three had been almost completely wiped out at Desolate Path Town, and the remaining two had waited to receive them. Now, they had brought back the King's corpse.
The corpse was not even whole. It did not even have a head.
A young general beside him wore a grief-stricken expression, and tears streamed straight down his face.
The old general frowned. "We're marching. Save your tears until we return to the Royal Capital."
The young general wiped his tears. "By the time we return to the Royal Capital, it'll be too late even if we want to cry. The King is dead. We'll all be buried with him."
The old general looked around and lowered his voice. "Who told you we'd be buried with him?"
The young general lowered his voice even further. "Prince Holman will definitely make us accompany him to the grave. Before the campaign, he warned us that if we could not capture the Year Wasteland, we would all offer our lives for the Empire's glory! Now that the King is dead, our crimes have been compounded. What hope do we have of surviving?"
The old general shook his head. "Prince Holman said the same thing before, back when we went to war with Shang Country. We lost that war too, yet we're still alive. Young man, don't overthink it. You're fortunate."
The young general's eyes went wide. "General, I respect you greatly, but