The chill from the last arrow in his chest had yet to fade, but the thunderous cries of battle and the rusty stench of blood had already ebbed away like a tide.
Zhao Zheng’s eyes flew open.
Before him was not the Hall of the Underworld, nor a blood-soaked battlefield, but the ceiling of a simple yet familiar army tent. The air smelled of cheap tung oil and dust.
He stiffly turned his head and saw that he was wearing a battered leather cuirass. A fresh scar marked his arm, the wound he had received three years ago on his first battlefield.
“I...” he rasped, his voice as dry as gravel scraping against gravel.
“Ah Zheng, you’re awake?” The tent flap lifted, and a dark-skinned, honest-looking young face peered inside. It was Zhang Daniu, his bunkmate when he first enlisted. Two years later, Zhang would die in the “Defeat at Blackwater River,” taking a blade meant for him.
