Ringing the Bell

Shi Wenbin was hesitating over whether he should imitate Daoist Feng and quietly withdraw from the rear camp.

But the thought had barely arisen when the blood cloud overhead began to churn to its utmost limit.

Suddenly, a drop of rain fell, landing squarely on his temple.

He raised a hand and touched it. It was wet, slick, and warm.

When he held it before his eyes, it was a vivid smear of blood.

Shi Wenbin raised his head blankly and looked up at the sky.

That single glance sent a jolt through his heart.

The blood cloud had scattered at some point, but what it revealed was not clear sky, but a crimson expanse.

Alarm bells blared in Shi Wenbin's heart. No longer caring about anything else, he shot to his feet and roared himself hoarse:

"Men! Bring my—"

Before he could finish, his entire body froze.

At some point, the entire camp had become ruins.

Carriages had overturned, banners lay fallen, cooking smoke had vanished, charcoal fires had gone cold. Even the horses lay dead on the ground, their saddles and bridles scattered about.

Iron armor, blades, spears, and wooden barricades were all shattered beyond recognition, strewn haphazardly across the ground.

Corpses covered the ground, lying every which way in great swathes that stretched beyond sight.

Those soldiers still held their spears. Some were curled up, some lay face-up toward the sky, every face twisted in terror, as though they had fallen into a nightmare from which they would never awaken.

As Shi Wenbin stared at it all, before his mind could understand what had happened, darkness fell before his eyes and he collapsed stiffly to the ground.

Before his consciousness faded, only one question echoed over and over in his mind, yet he could no longer ask