"It really is—North wind sweeps the ground, white grass bends, Hu's sky in October sees the first snow."
Perhaps because they were close to Tongguan, and her nerves were tensing up, Shang Ruyi, despite the cold wind howling in her ears, clearly heard someone in the troops behind her sigh helplessly. Upon hearing this, her brow furrowed even tighter.
Today marked the third day of their march.
Just three days ago, on the sixth of October, the day Yu Wenquan ascended the throne, they received their orders at dawn, each leading twenty thousand vanguard troops on an expedition. Who would have thought that the very next day, the weather would suddenly turn cold, and the further north they went, the colder it became. Not only did it start to rain, but the rain mixed with sleet, and the wind, carrying a chill, lashed across their cheeks, stinging like a slicing knife.
At this time, a poem began to circulate among the troops—
