The future is always unpredictable, and a person's fate is equally unforeseeable. On the stockade walls left by the Ming Dynasty, Zuwaro fell silent for a moment before patting Aguda's broad shoulders and asking.
"May the Chief Divine bless! Aguda, this time you brought back so many horses, all thanks to your battles! But these horses and prisoners that the Maha tribe must support... I fear the needed food will not be a small amount!"
"Chief! You are right. I can't support so many people and horses; I will give half of the war horses and prisoners to you! I also need you to transport more food here, especially that white, hunger-sustaining 'rice,' the more the better!"
Maha Agudah grinned widely, lacking the worry seen on Zuwaro's face. The pressure of food had indeed hovered over all the Northeast Jurchen Tribes, like shadows cast by the White Mountain God, descending cruelly from the cold and hungry winter.
