The night deepened.
The camp by the banks of the Yellow River was quiet, except for a few scattered campfires swaying in the night wind and the dull sound of the flowing river nearby. These lights and sounds only highlighted the deep, silent night, akin to a mass of congealed ink.
Suddenly, there was a slight disturbance in this inky darkness.
Though it was a movement almost imperceptible and easy to be swallowed by the night, the two soldiers standing on the watchtower quickly noticed it. They immediately raised their torches, which only illuminated a tiny area in front, but soon, the moving shadows stepped into the faint edges of their torchlight.
It was seven or eight black-clad cavalry.
These riders galloped swiftly towards the firelight and quickly reached the camp gate. One of them shouted loudly, "Open the gate!"
The two soldiers on the watchtower leaned out to look at them, cautiously asking, "Who goes there?"
