Edward Carter wondered if he was seeing things. The cooks and the two women had spent most of the day making three thousand flatbreads, and now they had all vanished without a trace. Edward Carter could only eat two of them, and after gnawing on a piece of lamb, his stomach felt like it was about to burst. Yet these guys still looked resentful, complaining that they weren’t full, burping and rubbing their bellies as they said there wasn’t enough food. They insisted that tomorrow it would be their turn to hunt, and they’d bring back every sheep in Longyou. Lamb should be eaten like this to taste right. All the lamb before had been wasted, and these flatbreads were delicious too. Why couldn’t his own wife make such tasty bread? He’d have to give her a beating when he got home.

The two women came over, covering their faces, carrying a big basket filled with wild vegetables like dandelion and wolfberry bark, which help with digestion and detoxification—top-quality wild greens.

Edward Carter stuffed two stalks into his mouth and chewed. Eating too much meat in a day could cause stomach problems. Tea would have been best, but since there was none, he had to settle for grass. Seeing Edward Carter eat, Charles Brooks naturally followed suit, so everyone grabbed a handful to eat. He didn’t want to explain the reason—just do as he did, no need to ask so many questions. Hadn’t they seen Charles Brooks lead troops? He’d throw punches after just a few words. Wangcai was obedient, never asked questions; when he saw me eating grass, he came over and grabbed a couple of stalks from the basket to eat. He’s the one I feel closest to.

After a busy day, it seemed these guys still had energy to spare. One by one, they stared at the moon in a daze, refusing to sleep.

The oldest man stroked his weathered beard and softly hummed a song. After listening for a while, the lyrics became clear: “We go our separate ways, willows swaying gently; we return, snow falling thick and fast.” Just these two lines, repeated over and over. After years of war, peace was finally in sight. Everyone had had enough of chaotic, unsettled lives. Having survived countless battles, they were filled with both longing and fear for a stable life. Who knew if their friends and family from the past were still alive? When they left, it was the beautiful season of green willows, and you held my hand, not wanting me to go. Now I’ve returned, but why is it a world of swirling snow?

Edward Carter knew that wasn’t the original meaning, but at this moment, he couldn’t think of a more fitting interpretation. For the first time, he touched the spiritual world of the Tang people. Edward Carter even felt as if he had become a native-born Tang dynasty man. Otherwise, why would his heart ache so much? Glory and rank were to be won on horseback—new recruits would get fired up by that line, but not the veterans. Those lucky enough to crawl out of piles of corpses would never trade their lives for such empty things. Seeing their families alive was their greatest wish.

Edward Carter sprawled out on the blanket, basking in the moonlight, while Charles Brooks enthusiastically zipped and unzipped his sleeping bag over and over. He just couldn’t figure out how this little thing, with a single pull, could make two rows of tiny teeth close together so tightly.

Edward Carter’s entrenching shovel had already been passed around several times. This strange, versatile weapon could chop, dig, saw, and even fold up to be carried on the back—an ideal tool for marching. The steel was even better than his own hundred-times-forged saber. When the two clashed, sparks flew; the shovel was unharmed, but the saber was chipped. Charles Brooks’s eyes nearly popped out. The saber was a birthday gift from his father when he turned fifteen, worth a fortune, and he had always treasured it, even sleeping with it at first. With it, he had broken countless rich kids’ prized swords in Chang’an, and half his reputation as the bravest in the army was thanks to this blade. Now it couldn’t even match a shovel. According to Edward Carter, the shovel was just for digging.

Thinking of this, he felt like banging his head against a tree. This guy had so many treasures! One long, one short—two daggers that could slice through iron like mud, with snowflake patterns on the blades like blooming pear blossoms. The handles were made of some unknown precious material, jade-like but not jade, with a lotus flower growing inside—no idea how it got there. Yet he used these treasures to cut meat, and after cutting, he’d just rinse them with water, wipe them with a cloth, and toss them in his bag. Because of this, Charles Brooks had grabbed Edward Carter by the neck and interrogated him for ages, only forgiving his wasteful ways after taking the larger dagger for himself.

Charles Brooks could never figure out why Edward Carter used priceless black glass to make small, exquisitely crafted tiles, all connected to a box below. The only flaw was two holes on the side—no idea what they were for. When he asked Edward Carter, he wouldn’t say, only insisting that the black glass on top not be pried off. Inside the beautiful little box was a lovely jeweled hairpin for women, adorned with some kind of gemstone—yes, adorned, not set, as if the gem had grown right out of the silver. When the firelight hit it, the gem seemed to come alive, sparkling brilliantly.

Good heavens, Charles Brooks was completely overwhelmed. Who exactly was this brother of his? Covered in treasures yet treating them like dirt, casually giving away the secret salt-making recipe that others would die for, letting him rummage through his priceless belongings at will. The treasured saber he fancied was given away without a second thought. He drank only the finest wine, ate only the best food, and would fly into a rage if anything was dirty. Bowls and chopsticks had to be boiled in water before use. Damn, this wasn’t some fallen nobleman—no prince or princess was as particular as he was. He had a little horse following him, but it wasn’t just a horse—it was Lord Horse. Not only did it refuse to work, it had a terrible temper and would bite anyone who annoyed it. Now it wouldn’t even eat flatbread unless it was fried in oil, and after eating, it had to chew some tender grass. All the famous wines from the capital that Edward Carter wouldn’t drink were fed to this “elder.” At night, it insisted on sleeping in a tent, while other horses slept standing up—it lay down. He had to ask, or he just couldn’t rest easy.