The camp was soon bustling as several fast horses dashed out, galloping towards the direction of the rising smoke signals.
Zhang Zhengqing led the charge, his expression taut.
Luo Yongjie took command of the camp, mobilizing the iron soldiers, drawing swords from their scabbards, and extracting all arrows from their quivers, which he planted point-down in the mud in front of him for easy access during battle.
They were dense as the scales of a Dragon Beast, with an aura of icy solemnity permeating the modest-sized military outpost.
Luo Yongjie eyed the direction of the smoke signals.
Unease and vigilance still troubled his heart, but after two months at Baili Feng's side, he had revised his opinion of the man, recognizing that the latter was not the stubborn, naively scholastic fool he had first thought.
One with the courage to draw his sword and walk into the jaws of death,
deserved to be called a warrior, no matter who he was.