A breeze swept in from the horizon, stirring a few white clouds. Luo Zai stood in the main camp, gazing at the ranks of soldiers ready to march.
Faintly, there seemed to be a smell of blood on the wind, and the cries of countless people reached his ears as well.
Some days earlier, a letter had arrived from Zhao City, saying that King Yu's Nine Tripods had been trembling continuously.
At the Ancestral Temple where King Yu's Nine Tripods were housed, every flower, blade of grass, and tree had withered overnight.
From one falling leaf, one knew autumn had come to the world.
Yet for such a strange occurrence to happen in a season of flourishing life was certainly no good omen.
Luo Zai raised his head toward the sky, his face filled with defiance.
The descendants of the Luo Clan had never been puppets on strings in Ji Zhao's hands, never tools he had created to endure for three thousand years and ultimately become a god.
They had joy, anger, sorrow, and delight, thoughts of their own, and differing personalities. They were, in truth, mortals, not omniscient and omnipotent beings.
Some clan heads had wanted to break free of the shackles of the Zhou State's Mandate of Heaven, even through an unsuitable means.
Some clan heads had hesitated, unwilling to let the Luo People suffer grievous casualties, yet unsure how to achieve that, and could only keep avoiding battle.
Most heads of the Luo Clan had far too many concerns, while their ancestor remained asleep. They truly did not know what course would leave nothing to chance.
Then Luo Zai had come into the world. He did not think so much about it. The Luo People could never simply surrender; better to stake everything on one fight and