Yang Yinglong stared at his son's resolute face, his solitary eye flashing a complex expression.
He slowly paced to the front of the tent, gazing at the Ming army's camp in the distance, which was faintly visible, his scar twisting with contemplation: "Chengye, do you know this battle concerns the survival of our army? Shi Feiyang has broken through eight arrays, and the morale of our troops is already in chaos." He suddenly turned around, the whip of bone joints heavily striking beside Yang Chengye's feet, "If we lose, not only our lives, but all of Bozhou will become scorched earth!"
