After a good night's sleep, Zhu Deming rose and walked out of his tent, watching the sun bleed in the eastern sky. The colors were warm—orange, gold, deep red; a bright promise for those who were alive to see it. But all he could smell was blood.
The camp was quiet as the soldiers slept, not worrying about anyone attacking them. The cooks had already started breakfast, the smell of cooked rice wafting over to him and making his stomach growl.
It was starting to feel more like a training day outside of the capital and not the day after everyone had given up the very thought of making it off the battlefield alive.
Reinforcements continued to arrive. Soldiers rode in with dirt-crusted boots and red-rimmed eyes, expecting to die by nightfall. Instead, they found themselves walking through orderly tents and cooking fires, past soldiers polishing their armor and calling out to them like longtime friends.
