On the sixth of July, Yan Xiaohan, having ridden non-stop, flagrantly barged into the Southwest army’s encampment carrying a travel-worn air.

He was brought inside with a blade held to his neck. Duan Guihong was already bent out of shape, and when he heard that the Court lackey had broken into camp, he practically couldn’t breathe. “You still have the face to come here?!” he seethed.

“Jingyuan is here with you, isn’t he?” Yan Xiaohan didn’t seem to be aware of the sabre at his neck, taking large steps towards the man. “How is he?”