Before the Mid-Autumn Festival had even arrived, the grasslands were already covered in thick white frost on autumn mornings, patchy and scattered from a distance. Joseph Qiao kept rubbing his hands together, standing atop the watchtower for two days now. Yet Yuna Ji had not returned. Meanwhile, the generals and chieftains on his side were embroiled in a heated debate—should they send troops to rescue the soldiers and others captured in the south?
No decision had been reached, and the enemy didn’t seem intent on attacking either. After the incident in the south, their supplies ran into trouble, so they had to prioritize resolving it. The enemy began moving units toward the south the day before yesterday, and early this morning, those stationed directly across from the stronghold had already begun to withdraw.
There was still over a month before winter set in, and this war might end early due to the climate. Joseph Qiao’s desire to launch a proactive attack was growing more mature—strike now while the enemy’s supply lines are compromised, hit them hard, and ensure they have no chance of breaching the stronghold before winter.
"Qiao, hurry over there—the argument’s getting out of hand."
Terry Mao rushed over, calling out. Joseph Qiao climbed down from the watchtower.
When he reached the entrance of the main barracks in the center of the stronghold, the people inside were already red-faced from arguing. Many generals felt they couldn’t just abandon those in the south.
Nearly forty thousand had been captured, and over the years, the Geng Clan had often provided food to the clans of Grant Territory—many tribes owed them favors.
"Are you just going to stand by and watch our clan perish? If the enemy takes that island, they won't show any mercy."
Elder Yu shouted passionately, while Serena Jing sat in silence, saying nothing. As the highest-ranking elder present, he had no real authority to decide.
"Everyone, quiet down for a moment."