The northern wind, laden with grit, whipped against the watchtower like a thousand steel needles, emitting a grating, rustling sound as if trying to grind the very walls to dust. Shen Mingyue lifted a hand to remove the veil that had obscured her vision. It was heavy, matted with fine sand; with a light flick, a layer of dust cascaded off.
Before her lay a scene of utter desolation: the crumbling city wall resembled an elderly, battered warrior, its surface webbed with deep, jagged fissures that reached down to the bone. Loose stones piled haphazardly in the gaps teetered precariously, as if a slightly stronger gust could send them tumbling. Gaunt soldiers leaned listlessly against the corners, their armor worn, rusted, and clogged with dry grass and dirt.
Some pieces were missing entirely, rendering them useless for protection. The frontier wind was sharper than she had imagined—an invisible blade slicing mercilessly across her skin, stinging and raw. Even breathing felt like inhaling sandpaper; every intake of air was a rasp against her lungs.
Chapter 107