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On the surface of the Blackwater River, silver scales undulated, and the ocher-red military flags fluttered weakly in the gentle breeze.
Lord Qiu's Dyke camp.
The floodwaters had ceased, and the urgency of the craftsmen from days before, busily rushing here and there, was now replaced by a harmonious slackness under the sunlight.
The sound of horse hooves approached.
The bare-chested martial master put down the stone bar and looked northward.
The silhouette of a fine horse reflected on the ground, a mix of black and white, made it momentarily difficult to distinguish whether the approaching horse was white or black.
Water splashed beneath iron hooves as the fine horse leaped into the paddock, and Jian Zhongyi, wearing a green official robe, reined in his mount, dismounted, and handed over the reins to the coachman to lead the horse into the pen.
"Official Jian!"
"Official Jian, are you well?"
"Official Jian has worked hard."
