The clamor in the mist still boiled on. Damp, chilling fog wrapped around the whoosh of arrows tearing through the air, the crisp clang of shafts striking iron shields, and the rising, falling curses and taunts of Xiongnu soldiers. Together, they wove a deafening net that made the mountain mist churn and flow faintly.
More and more ambush units arrived from the depths of the fog, each carrying bulging quivers as they scrambled to seize the surrounding heights and cliff faces.
The rain of arrows grew ever denser, pouring down upon the enemy formation below like a torrential storm.
Yet strangely, the enemy formation below remained utterly motionless.
Not a single wail of a wounded soldier could be heard, nor was there the slightest sign of their ranks breaking apart.
It was as though the arrows filling the sky were no more than a scratch, incapable of shaking them in the least.
This abnormality was like an icy steel needle, silently piercing the hearts of quite a few perceptive Xiongnu soldiers.
Among the crowd, a bearded officer furrowed his brows tightly. The excitement and arrogance on his face seemed to be gradually washed away by the mist, replaced by deep suspicion and unease.
His grip on his bow tightened slightly, his hawk-like gaze fixed upon the enemy below, veiled by the fog. The unease in his heart rose ever higher like the tide.
He had been watching from here for quite some time. He had seen wave after wave of arrows shot downward and heard that ceaseless clanging, yet he had never heard so much as a single cry of pain from the enemy—not even the slightest sound of soldiers shifting about in panic.
This was far too strange. Strange enough to make his skin crawl.
"Something's wrong. Very wrong."