On the banks of the Onon River in the bitter depth of winter, inside the golden-domed royal tent, the atmosphere was colder than the ice outside.
The yak-dung brazier burned a fierce red, yet it failed to dispel the bone-chilling gloom that seeped into the marrow.
Meng Ge’s upper body was bare; the gruesome wound on his left shoulder was covered in a thick layer of medicinal paste. Though the purplish-black venom had been suppressed, every breath still tugged at a tearing, agonizing pain.
Chapter 311