As the smell of roses silently dispersed into the air, Chu Qiao stood on the city walls, her gaze wandering between the columns of armor below. The flood of the ages swept past her ears, howling like a tornado that swept past through the skies.
As the pitch-black battle flag flew over Yan Xun's head, the darkness of the starless night enveloped all but the soldier's faces, illuminated by tens of thousands of lit torches. Standing in his black robe atop his golden carriage while holding onto his golden bow, Yan Xun gently lifted his head, staring silently at an all too familiar silhouette.
