Thirty li to the north of Licheng, Xieyang Valley, Beidi garrison camp.
In front of the coach's tent, one rider stood quietly in the boundless night.
The heroic young general sat astride the warhorse, his eyes shining like cold stars, and they were staring at the northwest.
That was the direction of the snow ridge.
Falling from such a high Qianzhang Peak, the chance of survival should be more fortunate than fortune itself.
The corners of his lips twitched slightly, and there was a bit of evil on his handsome face.
It seemed his plan has been successful.
Meng Tianluo was dead, and Zhao Ling was most likely dead. He heard that Meng Yuan had ordered the slaughter of nearly fifty thousand soldiers and horses of the imperial court.
He underestimated Meng Yuan's feelings for this woman. He never expected that he would do such a thing for her, but it was all good.
