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He Lingchuan walked toward the row of single-story buildings at the back of the camp. The place had once been a post station. The front courtyard and guest rooms were half-destroyed by fire, but the stables behind had survived mostly intact, aside from one stall burned to charcoal.
The captives were all lined up here, sitting shoulder to shoulder with their backs against the wall, hands bound behind them—anyone who so much as twitched earned the butt of a spear for their trouble.
There were over a hundred of them, all slumped and spiritless.
The minor officers and adjutants were penned separately in two adjacent stalls.
He Lingchuan went from stall to stall, peering inside, until he noticed something peculiar. From his point of view, one of the captives was glowing faintly red.
Strictly speaking, the light was seeping from his waist.
Interesting.
He beckoned a nearby soldier keeping watch over the captives and asked, “When was this man brought in?”
“Just now,” the soldier answered. “He was skulking around town after the fighting. We didn’t know what he was up to, so we dragged him in.”
“Oh?” He Lingchuan raised an eyebrow. “All of the roving...
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