Zheng Fan clutched the armor of the barbarian soldier in front of him, frequently glancing over his shoulder. He was filled with rage, knowing clearly that the hundred cavalrymen led by Huo Kuang were probably not coming out of there alive.
Perhaps, this was the true cruelty of war, a back-and-forth exchange where I could strike you, but you could strike back just as easily.
This was not a game. In a game, once a round was over, you could simply replenish your troop strength by resupplying for a few turns.
It was not that troop strength could not be restored, but the pain of helplessly watching as one's own men fell into the trap, losing his initial investment, was simply unbearable.
To be a bit more sentimental, these were living people; people with whom he had spoken just at dusk, promising to bring them back, to earn as much military merit and stay alive as long as possible for them.
