Chapter 42: Spies in the Ranks

A few guards led horses, escorting Zhao Ang toward the entrance of the military camp. Zhao Ang remained with his head bowed, appearing completely intoxicated and slumping limply against the horse’s back, allowing the guards to handle him as they pleased. As the wind brushed against his face, a cold, imperceptible smirk curled the corners of his lips.

The sentries at the gate raised their spears, blocking the group in unison.

"Who goes there?" the lead guard demanded coldly, pointing his spear directly at the head guard.

The guard quickly dismounted and cupped his hands in a salute. "Officer, we caught a drunkard trespassing in the camp and have brought him here for you to deal with. He doesn't look like an ordinary man; I fear he may have ties to our military. Please, report this to your superiors."

The sentry looked Zhao Ang up and down, his brow furrowed.

"Trespassing?" the sentry asked, his tone stern. "A drunkard who can stumble into a military camp? That’s a tall tale. If you don't have a reasonable explanation, who would dare take this mess off your hands?"

The guard offered a sycophantic smile. "Officer, this is by order of our superiors. We are merely following commands; we wouldn't dare overstep. For the details, please consult our commander."

The sentry’s eyes flickered. After a moment of hesitation, he dared not refuse. He waved his hand and gave a low order: "Go report to the camp commander. Tell him someone has brought a drunkard in."

A moment later, a middle-aged general clad in armor strode out, his brow furrowed and his gaze icy. "What is the meaning of this?"

The guard quickly stepped forward to explain the situation in a low voice. The middle-aged general lingered his gaze on Zhao Ang for a moment before letting out a cold snort. "Why bring a drunkard here in the dead of night? Do you take this camp for a tavern?"

The guard wore a forced smile, though he felt a sense of dread inside. Just then, Zhao Ang, who had kept his head bowed the entire time, slowly lifted it. His eyes were unfocused, as if he had not yet fully sobered up, and he mumbled vaguely, "What an imposing presence..."

The general’s pupils contracted, a cold glint flashing in his eyes. He stared intently at Zhao Ang, and after a long moment, he let out a cold laugh. "A drunkard trespassing in the camp, you say? This is clearly..."

He stopped mid-sentence, a flicker of profound meaning crossing his eyes. With a wave of his hand, he turned to the sentry and said, "Take him inside. Lock him up for now, and I will report to the Duke of the Nation before making a final decision!"

Zhao Ang was escorted into the camp. Throughout the journey, he kept his head low, showing no signs of resistance. However, with every step into the camp, he captured every detail: the frequency of the patrols, the placement of the guard towers, and even the morale of the soldiers—all were quietly etched into his memory.

***

Inside a tent, several figures whispered under the dim light, their expressions grave and their voices hushed.

"Is that really Zhao Ang?"

"It is. I didn't expect Zhou Qi’s side to act so quickly."

"What do we do? Are we really going through with it?"

The leader, Lu Chuan, was the first mole planted within the Black Tiger Army. He looked somber, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the table. "This is our final chance. If Zhao Ang lives, we have no path of retreat."

One of his companions couldn't help but whisper, "But he is the heir of the Duke of the Nation. If we truly kill him..."

Lu Chuan snorted, his eyes freezing. "Is this any time to worry about consequences? The Duke may not be able to protect him, and besides, the noble one gave the order personally. Who would dare disobey?"

The men exchanged glances and eventually nodded in silence.

Late at night, Zhao Ang was held alone in a remote tent. There were no guards around, as if he had been completely forgotten. Outside, Lu Chuan and his men approached stealthily. Lu Chuan clutched a short blade, its edge gleaming coldly in the moonlight.

Inside the tent, Zhao Ang sat quietly in the corner. Though his hands appeared to be bound, his body leaned slightly forward, as if listening to the movements outside. Lu Chuan lifted the tent flap and sneered, "Young Master, still too drunk to wake up? How does the Black Tiger Army’s wine taste?"

Zhao Ang raised his head. His eyes were indifferent, but the corners of his lips carried a mocking smile. "Lu Chuan, have you brought so many men to invite me for a second round?"

Lu Chuan was stunned for a second before he sneered, "Zhao Ang, at this point, do you still have the heart for sharp words?"

Zhao Ang remained silent, tilting his head slightly as if observing every person in the tent. A cold light flashed in Lu Chuan’s eyes as he raised the blade and slowly closed in on Zhao Ang.

Just then, a meaningful smile curled across Zhao Ang’s lips. "Lu Chuan, you moles are always so impatient."

Before the words had faded, he exerted a sudden burst of strength. With a gentle pull, the ropes snapped as if they were nothing!

Lu Chuan was shocked and lunged backward, but Zhao Ang was faster. Like a tiger released from its cage, he snatched the short blade from Lu Chuan’s hand and held it against his throat.

***

The tent fell into absolute silence; the others were frozen in place, terrified by the sudden turn of events.

"Drop your weapons, or he won't see tomorrow’s moon."

Lu Chuan’s neck went rigid, his face turned ash-gray, and his voice trembled. "Zhao Ang, do you think you can turn the tides?"

Zhao Ang let out a cold laugh, pressing the blade a fraction closer. "Lu Chuan, your masters must not have told you: I, Zhao Ang, never do anything without being certain of the outcome."

At that moment, the sound of rapid footsteps erupted outside the tent, followed by a squad of fully armed soldiers charging in. The footsteps outside grew closer, falling like heavy rain on the canvas, creating a suffocating pressure. Fear grew in Lu Chuan’s eyes, and cold sweat beaded on his forehead. He forced himself to stay calm and growled, "Zhao Ang, you can intimidate me, but you can't escape this camp! Once the men outside enter, you’ll be dead either way!"

Zhao Ang raised an eyebrow. He pressed the blade against Lu Chuan’s skin, and with a slight push, a thin line of blood appeared. Lu Chuan gasped, not daring to utter another word, his lips trembling shut.

Just then, the tent flap was violently thrown open. Several figures filed in. The leader was broad-shouldered and imposing, his black armor shimmering with a chilling light. His face was square, his brows like swords, and his gaze was sharp, carrying an air of authority that brooked no challenge. In his hand, he held a long saber etched with faint, dark patterns, exuding an unsettling pressure.

"Young Master!"

The man’s voice was deep yet resonant, shattering the deathly silence of the tent.

Zhao Ang looked up and revealed a smirk. "Yang Mu?" He pulled Lu Chuan slightly closer, the blade pressed tight against the man’s skin, leaving Lu Chuan unable to even draw a full breath.

Yang Mu stepped forward slowly, followed by a squad of fully armed soldiers. Every spear in their hands shimmered with a cold, piercing light, aimed directly into the tent. The atmosphere grew taut, like a bowstring about to snap.

"Young Master, I apologize for the delay in coming to your rescue," Yang Mu said, bowing with his hands cupped, his tone tinged with remorse.