The mountain bled louder than it screamed.
Somewhere down the slope, a soldier cried out as the medics lifted what remained of his leg onto a makeshift litter. It was the fourth amputation that day. The trap had been buried beneath a false patch of moss, so cleverly disguised that even their sharpest scouts missed it. The blades hadn't been dipped in poison this time—small mercies.
Sun Longzi stood still as the blood soaked into the hem of his uniform. It wasn't his. It rarely was. That was the curse of command: to watch others bleed so you didn't have to.
He didn't flinch as another shout echoed from the lower ridge. He didn't turn his head.
It had been like this for days—slow death by a thousand clever hands.
