That scene lingered before Mo Zhou's eyes and in his heart for many years afterward. He thought of it after victories and when he was wounded, as though merely remembering it could make the torn wounds on his body slowly heal and scab over, their pain giving way to an itch.
Beneath the full moon, yellow sand blew through the sky. Anyone who stepped outside the tents ended up covered in dust, with a mouthful of sand. So everyone gathered inside the tents around the fires, sheltering from the northern frontier's vast difference between daytime and nighttime temperatures.
The soldiers were young and old, and came from all over the country. When young men gathered to chat, women naturally dominated the conversation; the older men spoke of their wives, children, and families. In the end, people lived for these ties.
One soldier in the camp was even younger than Mo Zhou. His parents had died early, leaving him with only an older sister whom they had taken in and raised to be his future bride. Whenever the others discussed marriage and children, the teenager's cheeks, already ruddy from the wind and sun, flushed even redder. Stammering, he said the first thing he would do after the war was go home and get married.
As they talked, the conversation turned to Mo Zhou, who had remained silent throughout. He only watched the flames leap and rise, occasionally adding a piece of firewood, though his gaze wandered elsewhere. He was as tight-lipped as a sealed gourd.
"Little Mo, was there a girl you liked before you joined the army?" The older veteran's eyes gleamed with mischief. He wanted to see a little youthful awkwardness from someone who was always far too composed for his age.
Though the man had asked about a