The evening wind of the Northlands, carrying a piercing chill, was like a thousand knives, haphazardly carving the entire land. It resembled the work of third-rate sculptors who, despite claiming exceptional talent, could only manage a chaotic mess, ultimately resorting to covering their efforts with a blanket of white snow to avoid becoming a laughingstock.
Zheng Fan sat atop a pile of rubble, no longer clad in the blindingly bright armor he had worn during the day, but in a dark red sweatshirt Siniang had sewn for him. Zheng Fan had encountered followers of Zoroastrianism in Hutou City, a faith said to have spread from the Western Region. His current sweatshirt would allow him to blend in perfectly with them.
Ding Hao stood beside Zheng Fan, his long spear in hand—a spear that had drunk its fill of blood today.
Zheng Fan reached out, patted the spot beside him, and said, "Sit with me for a while."
Ding Hao set down his spear and sat beside Zheng Fan.
