On the first day of the battle of Verdant Canyon.
The skies were clear.
It was a day for mourning and nothing else.
In contrast to the miserable howls and the cries of the fallen that rang from time to time in the wildlands, the exit of the Verdant Canyon had remained very quiet. Usually instrument strings quavered and flutes sung, but they never made a sound.
Then, a muffled sound rang out in the quiet tent.
It was the sound of the vertical bamboo flute.
Fourth Brother suddenly looked up at Ximen Buhuo's pale face and his beaded sweat. His right hand, which was holding a brush, trembled, and his expressions gradually turned solemn.
There was a clang.
Another instrument sounded.
Seventh Sister looked up, and her fingers, which were holding on to an embroidery needle, began to tremble. She looked at Beigong Weiyang and the string instrument in front of him that was stained with blood. A worried expression appeared on her face.
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