A heavy weight seemed to press down on Zhao Zun's heart, so oppressive that he could hardly breathe.
On the cart, the bodies of fifteen trusted aides were neatly lined up, each face once familiar to him, now left only with a cold pallor.
Their pale faces had their eyes tightly shut, as if they were just asleep, but Zhao Zun knew they would never wake again.
Whose sons were they?
Whose husbands?
And whose fathers?
For the success of one general, countless bones must wither. Fifteen families shattered because of him, and all people saw was Zhao Zun's great achievement.
Yet who could know that such merit was something he would rather not possess?
Zhao Zun slowly stood up, walked to each body, bent down, and gently wiped their faces with a damp cloth.
His movements were very slow, as if afraid to hurt them. His fingers trembled slightly, and his heart clenched with pain upon touching those icy cheeks.
