"Rong, my brother!"
The man with the twisted mustache slumped on the collapsed thatched shelter, his arm wrapped in a blood-soaked clay cloth, holding a piece of a broken sword in both hands, his eyes filled with nothing but desolation.
A courier from the escort agency said sorrowfully:
"I heard from some people in the Jianghu that that night, Zhao fought against four enemies alone and fled east from Le'an City."
"We found a pile of human-shaped ashes on the edge of the bamboo forest and discovered this broken sword not far from there."
Lu Shilai sighed, took the broken sword from Xing Dao Si's hands, and examined it. "It indeed belongs to Zhao."
"He lured those four skilled swordsmen in black all by himself, greatly reducing our pressure. Otherwise... more lives would have been lost, we all owe him our lives."
"As for Rong himself, he... alas!"
Lu Shilai looked up at the pitch-black sky, feeling its emptiness and oppression.
