Near Wanling City, atop a hillock sat three hundred burly men clad in black attire, each donning heavy armor, silent and wordless.
Each of them bore on their backs a rock as large as three men, running through the hills, relying solely on the strength of their flesh.
Mo Xiaoqi sat on a rock, supporting his chin with both hands, watching intensely.
It was after his parents had died, leaving him with troubles at home, that he entered the stockade.
With many mouths to feed, and these men having particularly large appetites, the meager food reserves in the fortress had quickly run out in just a few days.
The rice and flour of these last few days had been bought by these ferociously formidable men; there was an Uncle Liu with a wiry frame in the stockade, who was once considered one of the best farmers for miles around.
