Atop the chariot, Wei Wuji slumped down, his old face etched with utter defeat and helplessness. Though he had just escaped with his life, his heart was filled with agony.
He had lost to a seventeen-year-old Qin general. For a venerable man approaching seventy, this filled him with unbearable bitterness and frustration.
"Bo'er," Wei Wuji murmured. "Your uncle has failed you... How can I possibly face your father now? Oh, Bo'er..."
He had been powerless to do anything but watch his nephew die a gruesome death. The memory filled Wei Wuji's heart with immeasurable sorrow.
"Zhao Feng," Wei Wuji murmured. He felt no hatred; on the battlefield, life and death were commonplace. Besides, he was the one who had attacked Qin. There was no room for hatred, only the sting of failure.
The successor he had painstakingly nurtured for so many years was gone, just like that.
