Several miles away stood an outpost bearing traces of a fierce battle.
The monk Liaochen sat slumped beneath a large tree, his head hanging low.
Two other sixth-rank monks lay dead nearby.
Yang Ling approached to examine him and discovered that Liaochen had been killed by an arrow.
A feathered arrow was embedded between his brows.
Yang Ling reached out and pulled it free.
The player monk hesitated to speak. Seeing that Yang Ling had already pulled out the arrow, he could hardly say anything more.
"This feathered arrow is no ordinary thing. The material used to forge it is no worse than hundred refined blazing gold."
Yang Ling studied the pitch-black arrow and asked the player monk:
"None of those five minor grandmasters seemed to use a bow. Did you see how Liaochen died?"
The player monk thought carefully, an odd expression crossing his face.
"I really didn't see how Martial Uncle Liaochen died..."
It seems my sworn brother shot him in passing...
Understanding dawned on Yang Ling.
There had to be casualties in the Ministry of War's operation to encircle and suppress Wuheng Mountain.
The best candidates for those casualties were naturally the sects' fifth-rank minor grandmasters.
If he were in Vice Minister Hua's position, he would not let the generals under his command serve as cannon fodder either.
It makes sense. To the imperial court, the sects have always been troublemakers.
The relationship between the two sides has always been ambiguous.
If the person Tun Tian Dao Palace sent today hadn't been me...
Yang Ling drew a deep breath.
The fifth-rank cultivators from Tun Tian Dao Palace, Arhat Temple, and Extreme Flame Sword Mansion would probably all have been sacrificed today.
Yang Ling casually put away the arrow and began searching Liaochen's belongings.
The player monk sucked