The rain continued to fall through the night, cold and chilling.
The battle in the forest had nearly reached its conclusion. Soon, the last tall survivor of the Mo Mountain Tribe was slain. Blood mixed with rainwater, staining the surrounding ground crimson.
It was quickly washed away by the rain.
The leader of the Black Wind Thieves surveyed the area with a grim expression. They had arrived with forty to fifty men, but now only thirty-odd remained. More than a dozen had died on the spot.
'This job hasn't even begun, and I've already lost almost half my men.'
'And these mountain savages are dirt poor. You couldn't even squeeze half a tael of silver from ten of them put together.'
'A loss. A devastating loss.'
"Leader, should we continue?" At that moment, his second-in-command stepped forward to ask. He was, of course, asking if they should continue to lie in wait for their target.
