At dawn, screams and cries of agony rang out at the same time, piercing the cold air like a stone dropping onto thin ice. Soldiers who had been fast asleep or dozing jolted awake. Many rushed out without even putting on their coats, bows in hand, searching all around for signs of the enemy.
There was no enemy. The cries of agony stopped, but the screams continued. The soldiers soon realized the sounds were coming from Little Yanzhi's tent.
Ever since the fighting against Luoluo's army had ended, Little Yanzhi had lived in the Naihang Tribe's camp, keeping to herself in a corner and rarely leaving her tent. She was like a widow in mourning. Many said that Little Yanzhi had buried only Dudun's body, keeping his head so she could whisper to it at night.
The rumor added a layer of fear to the Naihang soldiers' reverence for her. Unless it was necessary, no one dared go near that cluster of tents. Even Little Yanzhi's slave girls and attendants were often given a wide berth by soldiers when they walked through camp.
Both the screams and cries of agony came from the same place. Every soldier who heard them felt their heart hammering, and they stared dumbly in that direction. Not one dared go and see what was happening.
The soldiers waited for the officers, the officers waited for the generals, and the generals waited for their commander. After the initial panic, they noticed another strange thing: General Zhesu, who usually reacted quickly, and Prince Duoercha, who was always rash and restless, were nowhere to be seen.
Urged on by his colleagues, one bold commander of ten thousand entered General Zhesu's tent. It was empty. Prince Duoercha's tent was empty, too. Only then did everyone understand what the cries