The smell of blood and fire, mixed with the fishy smell of earth, was like a dull knife repeatedly scratching Chen Mo's nerves.
Autumn, the fifteenth year of Chongzhen.
Heyang Guard, North City Wall.
Under the crenellations of the city wall, the dense army of rogue bandits was like a surging black tide, lapping at this lonely city. Harsh shouts, dull horn clashes, and the wails of the dying merged into a doomsday rhapsody.
Chen Mo held on to the cold wall tiles, his palms covered in cold sweat. His stomach was churning, and he had to hold back not to vomit it out.
It's been three days.
