February 7th, 1460, Xia Lvcheng.
With the troubled autumn Horn spoke of finally past, the long, bitter winter had set in.
At the tail end of winter, with the morning mist yet to disperse, thin shards of ice could still be seen drifting on the Nao'an River.
On the branches by the riverbank, a light dusting of snow had settled; at the slightest gust of wind it came swishing down onto the heads of passersby.
Those splashed by the snow cursed "unlucky, unlucky, unlucky," which made the other pedestrians burst out laughing in spite of themselves.
Brushing the clinging snow from his hair, Delawan pulled his coarse wool greatcoat tighter, sighed once, and jogged on.
His destination lay just ahead—a three‑storey wooden house that had once belonged to a country squire, now serving as the temporary headquarters of the Western Battle Group.
"Staff Officer Delawan."
"Hello." Delawan nodded to the sentries at the door and stepped into the porch.
