He turned back and whispered to his trusted aides, "Remember, swift and decisive. No matter the cost, we must complete the mission."
Around the Turkic camp, though sentries patrolled endlessly, they appeared utterly exhausted after a long march.
Their steps were heavy, and their eyes betrayed an unhidden weariness. Some sentries even staggered while patrolling.
The hundred-man squad led by Ma Cheng crouched low, deftly using the terrain and night's veil to easily evade the sentries' sight, like ghosts in the night, silently following Zhao Zun's team, both covering them and weaving through the tents.
They moved swiftly, blades incessantly slicing across the necks of Turkic soldiers asleep on the grass, collecting their heads. One slash, one kill; fast, ruthless, precise.
Soon, where they passed, they left behind a silent trail of bodies, the bright red blood barely had time to flow far before quickly soaking into the grass below.
