"Please vote!"
As Yang Zhao and Yang Shidao made their way along, they found far fewer people on the streets.
And just as the soldiers guarding the city had said, mourning white filled their sight.
Before long.
The two arrived at the Yang Ancestral Residence.
The spring chill had yet to fade.
The vermilion gates of the Yang Ancestral Residence had shed all their splendor, and white silk hung from all three tiers of the lintel.
The bronze bells at the corners of the eaves were tied with hemp knots. Their wind-stirred chimes sounded like sobs, mingling with the bitter winds of the late-February cold snap and sweeping up frost from the freshly laid mugwort before the steps.
"Young Master Shidao, Master Zhao." The guards at the entrance all wore hemp shoes and bowed in greeting.
The two stepped into the Yang Residence.
They soon reached the main hall.
Seven-foot white banners hung like streams of silver beneath the eaves. Inside the mourning hall, twelve mourning curtains stirred without wind, while sandalwood incense and paper ash mingled into a haze.
Many members of the Yang Household were gathered there, their faces grief-stricken.
Hearing movement outside, Yang Wenfeng turned to look. At the sight of Yang Shidao and Yang Zhao, he asked in surprise, "Why have you two come back?"
"I heard that the struggle between the Su and Zhou Households had ended and that every household had suffered heavy losses, so my nephew Shidao and I hurried back."
As Yang Zhao spoke, he looked toward the person lying in the black coffin. It was the Grand Elder.
"The Grand Elder... Uncle, how heavy were our losses?"
"Of twenty martial artists at xiantian perfection, six Grandmasters, and one cultivator at the sixth layer of qi refining, only seven at xiantian perfection,