After a night of wild celebration, Yang Ge and the others had to face the blood that had been spilled.
Of the Bright Cult's five thousand followers, one thousand three hundred and twenty-six had fallen, and more than two thousand four hundred were wounded.
Of the Recruitment Camp's two thousand troops, seven hundred and ninety-eight had fallen. Nearly every survivor was wounded.
Of the Upper Right Office's nine hundred Embroidered-Clad Strongmen, seventy-nine had fallen, and one hundred and seven were wounded.
Of Chain Wharf's more than fourteen hundred fighters, two hundred and fifty-seven had fallen, and three hundred and thirty-six were wounded.
Of the Xiang Family's three hundred men, thirty-four had fallen, and thirty-three were wounded...
With fewer than ten thousand men, they had faced over twenty thousand Japanese pirates and annihilated them at the cost of two thousand four hundred and ninety-four lives. On paper, those figures would have constituted a great victory in any time or place.
But human lives were not numbers.
Yet it seemed that only now, at this very moment, had Yang Ge suddenly realized that human lives were not numbers.
In the faint light of dawn, they slept quietly, shoulder to shoulder on the soft beach, resting peacefully in the salty sea breeze.
It was as though, when the sun rose as usual, they would sit up comfortably, stretch at length, and smilingly tell their companions about the wonderful dreams they had had last night, just as they had on every ordinary morning before...
Yang Ge walked among them, back and forth, without a word.
No one knew what he was thinking. They could only feel the air around him grow increasingly oppressive, see his steps grow heavier, see his spine slowly bow...
Everyone wanted to tell him not to take it so hard.