Lin Mo's last memory was the dazzling shadowless lights in the operating room. When he opened his eyes again, what he smelled was not disinfectant, but the strong smell of blood, feces and burnt flesh.
He lay on the cold mud floor with severe pain in his left chest. When he touched it, he found that it was a broken arrowhead embedded in the gap of the chainmail--it was not dead.
"There are still alive!" The sound of horse hooves approached, speaking in an incomprehensible language, but the excited roar before killing was the same in any era.
Lin Mo gritted his teeth and turned over, grabbing half of the flagpole next to him. The flag is broken, with the word "Du" vaguely visible.
Juniper Department. Salhu. The whole army on the west road was wiped out.
Historical knowledge is like ice water initiation. He traveled to the scene of the most tragic defeat of the Ming army, and in at most one stick of incense time, Hou Jin's last-ditch team would sweep here.
At this time, a faint coughing sound came from not far away. A young soldier whose face was covered in blood was trying to stuff his intestines back into his abdomen.
I am a doctor. The body moves before consciousness.
When he used the torn strip of cloth to apply pressure to stop the bleeding, the young soldier suddenly grabbed his hand, his eyes widened: "Mom... Dumplings..."
The hand dropped.
