The moon was bright, the breeze gentle, and the night was just right.
The camp, the main tent.
The moment the tent flap was lifted, a wave of heat rolled out.
The tent was brightly lit, and voices rang out without pause.
A burly, middle-aged man sat boldly in the seat of honor. His features were sharply defined, and his voice was full and resonant. A thick beard covered his face, giving him an imposing air. His blazing tiger eyes shifted, glints of light flashing in their depths.
His breathing was restrained, almost imperceptible.
One glance showed he was a formidable martial artist with deep reserves of strength. He had taken off his armor and undershirt, casually exposing half his bare chest. His skin was dark and bronzed, his muscles knotted; in the candlelight, they glistened with a fine sheen. The air outside was cool, but he seemed not to feel the cold at all, cheerfully raising his cup and chatting with the people below him.
Several others sat on either side of the tent.
But they were not discussing how to take the city. They were talking about how to divide up and manage all of Longwu Commandery once they had conquered it, which forces to ally with and support, whom to keep at a distance, and how to befriend those far away while striking those nearby... The prospects looked excellent.
The mood was pleasant when someone, no one knew who, brought up Zhang He.
The atmosphere in the tent turned cold at once.
The burly middle-aged man in the seat of honor also darkened his expression and said unhappily, "It's such a fine day. Why bring up an ill-omened person like that?"
"...This subordinate spoke out of turn."
The person who had misspoken immediately stepped forward to apologize.