A fortnight prior the massacare of Xiajin Yao elders.
That night was cold and haunted as any other could be in war times. Occasional groans and grunts of pain echoed through the camp, filling the darkened atmosphere with a chilling air. The winds howled low and slow, hissing through the rustling leaves and swaying trees. The ghost of solemnity sang in the camp, looming and watching the camp, unknowable and unseen, a grief ill-said.
Li Xinyuan's shoulders weighed down and heavy as he entered his tent, exhausted beyond care, back tense and aching. In moments of quiet loneliness, though glad to be not saddled by the responsibilities of strategizing, the surgeon found himself missing his friend and attendant Hu Lijing.
