The Tent is Warm, Schemes Run Deep, Swift Riders Sent; Muffling Their Lips, They Tread the Night Frost Far

Lufan Lie leaned against a tree trunk, his eyelids growing heavier and heavier.

The poisonous smoke was taking effect.

The toxins of the Shaman Smoke were eating away at his body bit by bit.

His fingers trembled, his legs weakened, and it felt as though a huge boulder were pressing on his chest. Every breath took all the strength he had.

He glanced at the soldiers around him.

They were in even worse condition.

Some were already lying on the ground, their faces bluish, utterly motionless, without even the strength to groan.

Others sat propped against tree trunks, their eyes unfocused, lips purple, fingers twitching unconsciously.

Still others were dry-heaving, vomiting foul-smelling matter streaked with blood.

The drawing of lots had already stopped.

It was not that no one was willing to go first. No one was capable of going anymore.

Those deeply poisoned could not even stand steadily, much less clear the way and eliminate dangers.

Those less severely poisoned could still move, but their muscles and bones ached, their limbs were weak, and after taking only a few steps, they had to gasp for breath for ages.

Tuoba Gu was in quite a bad state as well.

His face was pale, cold sweat covered his forehead, and the hand bracing him against the tree trunk would not stop shaking.

"General..."

His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping together. "How much longer... can we hold on?"

Lufan Lie did not answer.

Because he did not know either.

This kind of Shaman Smoke had not been used for a long time. Even when it was used, it had been used on enemies—how could he know how long someone could endure after being poisoned?

Besides, there was no point discussing how long they could hold on. Even if they survived the