The autumn wind at the foothills of the Taihang Mountains carried the smell of blood and poured it all the way from the Dan Valley into the Zhao Army camp. When Qin Mu opened his eyes, there was a gray sky above his head, and several vultures were circling in the low sky, making a horrifying sound like a baby crying.
He wanted to move, but there was a sharp pain in his left rib, as if someone had stabbed a red-hot iron bar through the gap between his ribs. Looking down, he saw a piece of blood-soaked leather armor wrapped around his body. Several of the hemp ropes between the armor plates had been cut off by sharp blades, revealing a knife wound that was deep enough to show the bone. The skin at the edge of the wound was rolled up and had begun to turn black and fester, exuding a disgusting putrid odor.
"This is wrong..." Qin Mu muttered to himself, his voice hoarse like sandpaper being rubbed against rough wood.
