More and more rebel soldiers fell to their blades. The spattering blood almost stained their eyes red, until even their vision was a wash of crimson.
Shitou felt nothing. This was his first time killing, but not his first time seeing someone die. He had seen countless deaths far more gruesome than these. Those who had lived as slaves felt only numbness toward death.
Countless men like Shitou had united within the Slave Army. Though they had no martial masters to serve as the spearhead of their charge, their fighting spirit was no weaker for it.
With the pressure on them suddenly eased, Noble Consort Huang and Deng Chanyu understood. They had thought slaves could never form an army, and that even if they could, it would have to be an army of orphaned slaves.
Yet they had never imagined that the slaves with families would be the ones to make a real difference. They could not help admiring King Zhou's foresight.
In truth, no matter how slaves were trained, they would struggle to match a regular army's combat prowess. What mattered most to the Slave Army was therefore not fighting ability, but fighting spirit-the resolve to battle to the death.
Slaves born into bondage, slaves bound by family ties-only those with something to worry about would consider the consequences and weigh fighting to the death against fleeing.
Those alone in the world had no need to think about such things. Once joining the army had earned them wages and a better life, how could they not cherish their own little lives?
Take two otherwise identical slaves: one had elders and children to support, with a wife and children waiting on a warm bed at home; the other could feed his entire household simply by filling his own belly. Which