"Go! Go! Take them away!"
Shen Le looked to the left: five battered soldiers. To the right: three defeated warriors. In the few short minutes he had spent hiding, rolling away, and trying to save Gesang, their party of twenty-nine had been reduced to nine, including himself.
There was one old man, and three baby-faced child soldiers somewhere between childhood and adolescence. Including him, there were only five young and able-bodied men left, and every one of them was wounded.
Even those with the lightest injuries—like himself—still had blood flowing from the wound on their shoulders.
To cross a thousand miles of snowy mountains and return home while carrying these injuries and relying on their meager supplies... Shen Le felt dizzy just thinking about it.
What could possibly make that feasible?
Back then, the advance party entering Tibet had numbered over a hundred. They had mounts and fur clothing; most importantly, they had guns. Guns meant they did not have to race after prey for miles on foot. Guns meant that as long as they still had the strength to pull the trigger, they could bring down game and replenish their food on the road.
And yet, of the advance party's 136 soldiers, 63 officers and men had died gloriously in just one year of advancing and holding their position. "I understand."
He took a deep breath, bent down, and closed the dead leader's eyes, which had been staring wide open. Then he took the curved saber and hung it at his waist.
"First, we need to find somewhere to treat our wounds and eat something—"
They needed to find a cave, one where smoke would not rise into the air. They would gather firewood, light a fire, boil water, sterilize cloth strips, and clean their wounds.
Relying on common