In the afternoon, the setting sun still lingered, reluctant to part with the evening clouds in the sky.
However, in the Jin State army's camp, no one possessed the leisure to exchange glances with the setting sun.
The people of Jin land, to a certain extent, were like those of the Yan region. There seemed to be an innate lack of poetic and romantic flair in their bones. This was reflected in their speech: they loved to draw out their words, a habit mixed with an air of impatience and urgency.
Hsu Youcheng was quietly cleaning his right arm. During the morning's siege, an arrow had pierced it. He knew very well that the barbarian soldier atop the fort had aimed for his head. He was fortunate to have dodged in time; otherwise, he would have met his end beneath the fort's walls.
His own men, however, had not been so lucky. Of the roughly three hundred who had formed the middle echelon of the assault, nearly a hundred had perished. Almost all the survivors were wounded.
