Zong Shen turned a deaf ear to the drunkard's wailing.
Over the past several thousand years, no small number of natives had died in war.
His spiritual sense had already swept over the drunkard's body when the man rushed out.
Aside from being steeped in alcohol and grief, the drunkard's consciousness showed not the slightest halo of Hero aptitude.
He simply continued walking forward calmly.
"Yarogluk, you should give an account to those who were once your people."
When Marshal Haken heard Zong Shen say this, a fierce glint flashed through his eyes as he prepared to step in and drive the man away.
But Yarogluk moved first.
The former king staggered several steps forward. He did not look at Zong Shen's retreating figure, instead facing the drunkard's bloodshot eyes directly.
His lips moved a few times, and his voice was dry and rasping like sandpaper scraping.
"Of the Seventh Fortress's garrison and civilians, fewer than one in ten survived."
"The names of those who lived are all recorded in the military office's registry."
"The nameless dead were buried beneath the snow, or became part of the eternal night."
"The Golden Fox betrayed the front."
He paused, his gray-blue eyes reflecting the drunkard's vacant face.
"Your son was a warrior. For a warrior, dying on the battlefield is a fitting end."
"It is better than dying in bed without ever having had the chance to fight."
As he spoke, he took out a pouch of Denar and placed it in the drunkard's hands.
There was nothing comforting about those words. They merely laid bare a cruel reality.
The drunkard opened his mouth, as though every ounce of strength had been drained from him.
The oak cup in his hand fell to the ground with a clang, leaving behind a patch