The good news came into the camp at midnight with the first ray of moonlight.
Chen Qingzhi burned himself in the camp. One hundred thousand troops either died or surrendered, and Beimang Mountain set the tripod. The chaotic world that lasted for thirty-seven years came to an end on this night.
The campfire crackled, and the fat from the roasted lamb dripped into the fire, splashing out an alluring aroma. In the big tent, the sound of clinking wine bowls and loud laughter almost overturned the tent roof.
"Brother! I knew it! If you take action, Chen Qingzhi will have to kneel down even if the King of Heaven comes!" Li Zhao bumped over with a wine bowl, his young face flushed red by the firelight and the smell of alcohol. His armor was still on, and his shoulders were wrapped in fresh bandages—the knife he received three days ago when he was flanking an enemy was clearly visible to the bone, but now he was smiling as if his skin had only been scratched.
Li Yin took the wine bowl but didn't drink it. His eyes fell on his younger brother's shoulder: "How is the injury?"
