The coldness brought by the last arrow in his chest has not yet dissipated, but the deafening shouts of death and the rusty smell of blood have receded like the tide.
Zhao Zheng opened his eyes suddenly.
What comes into view is not the Senluo Palace in the underworld, nor the bloody Shura Field, but the top of a simple but familiar military tent, and the air is filled with the smell of low-quality tung oil and dust.
He turned his neck stiffly and saw that he was wearing worn-out leather armor, and there was a newly healed scar on his arm - it was left when he first went to the battlefield three years ago.
"I..." He croaked, his voice as dry as gravel.
"Azheng, are you awake?" The curtain was opened, and a dark and honest young face poked in. It was Zhang Daniu, his brother who was in the same bunk when he joined the army. He later died in the "Blackwater River Defeat" two years later because he defended him from a knife.
