Shen Le slowly walked over, crouched beside Qingzhui, and softly recited the Mantra of Rebirth. As he chanted, he carefully studied Qingzhui, striving to commit every detail to memory:
Its wet almond-shaped eyes, its matted mane, its chest rising ever more faintly, its hindquarters soaked in blood...
As he memorized it, he painstakingly traced its current appearance in his mind, along with the broken, missing lines on the Six Steeds of Zhaoling reliefs.
The forehoof worn away by weathering, the tail blurred by the passage of time, the severed and damaged belly and saddle trappings whose lines were no longer smooth...
The wind howled across this small battlefield. For a time, no one spoke. Only the long wind tearing at the banners and the soft snorts of warhorses could be heard.
The generals present either stood silently beside the Prince of Qin, or seized this rare moment of rest to soothe their horses, wipe away their sweat, give them water, and feed them rich fodder and malt sugar from their palms.
Others, farther away, were busy gathering the cavalry, reforming their ranks, checking on the soldiers, and binding wounds.
Still others inspected their weapons, hurriedly replacing chipped sabers and broken spears, or snatching fragments of armor from the ground, hammering them flat, and tucking them against their chests as makeshift heart guards...
In short, no one believed that victory had already been secured. To these soldiers and commanders, this was merely a brief pause in the midst of a great battle—a chance to rest and regroup while time allowed.
After quite a while, Shen Le finished reciting the Mantra of Rebirth and braced himself to rise. He swayed as he tried twice, only for his shoulder to ache as someone grabbed him and hauled him upright.
"Can't stand up, little