The dew in the second half of the night condensed on the iron roof, seeping down along the rusty cracks, and when it dripped on the back of Mo Ye's neck, it was so cold that he winced. He squatted on the top of the watchtower of the alliance base, holding half a shiny piece of metal in his hand - it was leftover from the last time he repaired the pot for Lin Zhao. The edge was rubbed smooth by him unconsciously, like a shapeless amulet.
