"By the way, Father asked me to give you this," Wen Zhao said, pulling a scroll from inside his shirt. It was made from newspaper. "Father said to open it only when the battle is at its most desperate. He'll come help you then."
"Heh heh. Everyone who was supposed to come has arrived. It's time to wipe you all out."
A hoarse voice came from the unrelenting fog across from them. Then one figure after another emerged. The speaker was an old acquaintance of theirs: the Candle Bearer, who had narrowly escaped No Hand last time.
More and more people appeared on either side of the Candle Bearer.
There was a bald monk with precept scars on his head, carrying a monk's staff; a pretty young woman with a rusty iron mask covering half her face; a fisherman in a bamboo hat and straw raincoat, holding a battered boat oar; and a graceful young gentleman in white, with a book box on his back and a folding fan in his hand.
The other side's outfits were a hodgepodge. Jiang Cheng even spotted a eunuch among the crowd, with a pale, hairless face and narrowed eyes, wearing a yellow robe and holding a white jade horsetail whisk.
"What is all this supposed to be? Why's there even a beggar?" The Fatty stared at a decrepit old beggar among their ranks. He wore a patchwork robe, was barefoot, and was so thin he looked like skin and bones.
The moment the Fatty noticed him, the old beggar turned to look his way. After a moment, he grinned, revealing several missing, blackened teeth, and thrust out the Coarse Porcelain Bowl in his hand, its rim chipped as though he were begging.
"Don't look at his bowl!" The hot-tempered old general Yan Can