The Ten Halls of the Netherworld stood towering and majestic. This ancient inheritance, which had once never seen the light of day, had reopened and now stood amid the stars, looking down upon the world.
The gains and losses of a single game, the gains and losses of a single general—which weighed more, which weighed less? Before the Yama halls, Zhiming stood silently, the answer already clear in his heart.
He had won the first round, yet he had lost as well.
"Zhiming, don't be too harsh on yourself!"
At some point, a figure in a black-and-white cloak appeared behind him. Looking at the man before him, he said, "Once war begins, casualties are inevitable. Ziyi will not blame you, nor will Consort Luo. Whoever had stood in your place today could not have done any better."
Ning Chen turned around and looked at his friend. "Brother Mu, I understand what you mean. Thank you."
Mu Qianshang smiled. "We'll find another way to deal with Ziyi's injuries. Over these years, we've weathered so many raging storms and towering waves. Would we fear such trifling winds and ripples?"
"Precisely because we have weathered too many storms, I do not wish for any of the friends who survived alongside us to come to harm again. Still, you are right, my friend. We endured far greater hardships before; compared to those, what lies before us is not worth mentioning. I will lead everyone through this as soon as possible." Ning Chen's expression firmed once more.
"Heh."
Mu Qianshang chuckled. "Now this is the Zhiming I know. Schemes, calculations, expedient stratagems, and ghostly plots are not our strengths. Only you can rack your brains over them. These hundred days of peace did not come easily. Have you decided what to do next?"
Ning Chen