Illigo Northern Plateau, Black Hawk Canyon.
The night was as dark as ink, and the biting cold wind howled as it swept through the jagged rock walls, stirring up fine sand that patted against the tent with a rustling sound.
In the valley, most of the soldiers had wrapped themselves in rough wool blankets, curled up behind rocks sheltered from the wind, asleep. Only patrol posts and hidden sentries patrolled in shifts as planned by Song Heping.
Song Heping sat in his makeshift tent, in front of the small stove lay a smoke-blackened copper pot, brewing rich Arabic tea. The spicy ginger aroma mixed with the cool scent of mint, permeating the cramped space.
He sipped the scalding tea slowly, but his gaze occasionally flicked to the military watch on his wrist. The luminous hands clearly showed the time approaching midnight.
Every second seemed to add weight to the drawn bowstring.
The tent flap was abruptly lifted, letting in a rush of cold air.
