Four people were playing poker, the atmosphere warm and jovial.
The night grew deeper and chillier, cold wind stirring, prickling the skin—a bit cold.
The four added quite a bit of wood to the campfire, which burned vigorously, fending off the surrounding cold.
The season was just right, early spring, not yet summer, with hardly any mosquitoes or ants, entertainment by the fire, utterly carefree and comfortable.
However, one person sitting alone by the campfire, focused on roasting bamboo shoots, was the stark opposite of their merry mood, wrapped in a cold aura, the wind blowing ever so desolately.
In this desolate atmosphere, Ya Tianxing contacted Mu Cheng, running through the operation plan for after midnight.
By the time he finished, the three bamboo shoots in his hands were also perfectly roasted.
With not many seasonings available, he had just sprinkled them with salt and pepper, evenly at that, before moving them away from the fire with a stick.
