Burning Grain!

The setting sun sank beyond the horizon, casting red light across the sky. A sea of blood drifted in the heavens, receiving the dead. Hand-Snake City fell into crimson shadow, welcoming the doomed fate of destruction.

Black Wolf sat cross-legged atop the city wall, gazing at the enemy city amid blood and fire, his heart without the slightest ripple.

He had been born into a family of commoner warriors of the Alliance. His grandfather had died in battle in the north; his father had died in battle in the south. During five years at the community military school, veteran warriors had told them that to survive in battle, rise through battle, and then die in battle was the life of a Mexica Warrior.

The meaning of a warrior's existence was to fight for the gods, the king, the priests, the family, and glory. So he did not care about slaughter, nor did he fear being killed. Everything was merely fate.

The tribal warriors of the wasteland cared even less about slaughter. To them, death was as common as a meal, as a bowl of water. People of later generations would find it very hard to understand how people viewed death in an era when the average lifespan was only a little over twenty years, or even less. Simply put, it was probably more Spring and Autumn than the Spring and Autumn, more Warring States than the Warring States.

"Black Wolf Commander, the two thousand Tecos mouths have all been executed."

Dailu Masat gave a simple smile and walked over with his bloodstained Copper Spear.

"These bronze weapons really are useful. Clean and sharp. They don't go blunt like ordinary stone, and they don't wear down as easily as Obsidian."

"Haha, bronze weapons really are good, much better than Obsidian!"

Black