As they cleared the battlefield, Lin Mu's expression remained grim.
The Jiaolong Stronghold's chief had escaped. Second Chief Lei Lie was dead, and Third Chief was dead as well.
What chilled him even more was that Lin Cang had died, along with the five private soldiers under his command—not one had survived. They had all been members of the Lin Family, and more importantly, they had been Lin Mu's men. They had followed him faithfully, serving him before horse and behind saddle, yet now they were all gone.
He stood before Lin Cang's corpse, head lowered as he stared at it for a long time without saying a word.
People bustled around him, carrying corpses, counting heads, and tending the wounded. No one noticed that his fingers were trembling slightly.
He suppressed a towering fury, a rage that burned into his bones yet could not erupt, an indignation choked to its very limit.
Jiaolong Stronghold was turned upside down, but the water bandits' lair had been emptied clean. Captain Du set the stronghold ablaze with a single torch.
The Wu Clan's merchant ship was found on the far side of the island.
The hull was intact, but the cargo aboard had already been emptied. The bodies of the crewmen had been tossed into the hold, scattered every which way in a ghastly sight. Captain Du had his men carry out the corpses, count them, and draw up a report to submit upon their return.
By the time the fleet began its return voyage, night had fully fallen.
The river lay black as ink, with only the torches at the bows swaying in the wind.
Three large ships slowly sailed away from Broken Dragon Island under cover of night. The fire on the island still burned, painting half the sky