The next morning, the plains still smelled of blood.
What had once been an open plain of chaos and blood was now a graveyard. Littered with the wreckage of armor, shattered weapons, and the faint smell of iron carried on the wind.
Smoke rose from the remnants of Qing's camp, curling into the pale sky like the breath of dying ghosts.
Fu Ling stood atop the ridge, gaze fixed on the horizon. Beyond the distant valley lay the last line of Qing's defense. Their capital city, Yaojing.
"We move at dawn," Wei Tingche said in a calm voice.
Fu Ling glanced at him briefly. Wei Tingche's armor was newly cleaned, though the dents and scratches told the story well enough.
"No rest for the conquerors?"
Wei Tingche's mouth curved faintly.
"Rest when we reach the city."
Fu Ling gave a small snort, mounting his horse in one smooth motion.
By the time the sun cleared the mountains, the army was on the move.
