As July arrived, even in the inland Thousand River Valley, under the monsoon of the Xilan Sea, it began to get hotter.
After half a month of fierce sunshine in June, the rain for the first three days of July brought a good cooldown to the people.
However, just after the rain stopped, the blazing sun returned, baking the roads like a steamer.
On this steaming road, spears rose like a forest, iron helmets like a sea, reflecting dazzling light.
Short-necked, thick-legged Kush horses trotted with their four hooves, pulling carts covered with oilcloths, filled with flour, sausages, and lead.
The farmers on both sides of the road occasionally looked up, but they often watched for a long time, seeing neither the beginning nor the end.
After all, this was a marching formation of tens of thousands, not seeing the end was normal.
"Going to war again." The old farmer pressed down the brim of his straw hat, "When will this end?"
