Old Rat had never imagined that one day he'd be strung up on a tree as bait.
His mouth was stuffed with a rock, then tied tight with rope so he couldn't spit it out or make a sound, only muffled nasal noises escaped—riddled with unmistakable fear.
Looking closer, Old Rat's body bore plenty of bloodstains—shallow cuts made with a small blade—scary looking but far from fatal, most wounds already dried and only a few on his lower legs still oozing a little.
A sparse copse of trees surrounded him, deathly quiet save for Old Rat's whimpering.
Old Rat had been hung there an hour earlier—Tan Bin and his men's handiwork. They'd circled around through the night, overtaking the Barbarian troops, found this spot and set it up to test whether yesterday's plan would work.
As for the bloodletting—that was to lure the enemy in. After all, the Wolf Race's sense of smell far surpassed that of the Human Race; even from afar, they could pick up special scents, like blood.
