My brother entrusted his child to me, and I livestreamed raising the baby, making the Empress cry wi

Those who had been whispering fell silent, as if someone had grabbed their throats. The air seemed to freeze, even the raindrops felt heavy, making it hard to lift one's head.

The flags by the drill ground were stuck to the flagpoles by the rain, occasionally twitching as if they were flipping over, before drooping down limply again.

The person whose gaze swept across him moved his lips, wanting to say something but unable to, and finally just shifted his gaze to the puddle beside him.

Their faces were reflected in the puddles, pale and blurry, with raindrops pounding into fleeting craters, like shattered mirrors, each piece showing their disheveled state.

Some people looked at themselves in the puddle as if they didn't recognize themselves, or as if they were seeing something clearly for the first time.

The silence lasted for quite a while, so long that even Zhao Tiezhu thought his words had been wasted.

But in the end, some soldiers gritted their teeth and silently stepped out of the ranks.

Leading the way was a man in his thirties with a faint old scar on his face, running from his forehead to his ear. It was so faint that it was almost invisible, only becoming slightly darker after being soaked in the rain.

He paused as he passed Zhao Tiezhu, something lodged in his throat, and he managed to squeeze out a low, hoarse voice: "Old Zhao, you're right. I misunderstood for a moment. I should go."

Without even glancing at Zhao Tiezhu's expression, he walked straight to the end of the right-hand line and stood facing the command platform.

Once he stood still, the rain flowed down his old wound, accumulating into a small droplet at the end of the scar, lingering there like a tear about to fall.

Dozens of people followed closely behind him, some young, some middle-aged, each with varying degrees of shame and resolve on their faces.

Some people bit their lips, leaving a white mark on their lower lip; some clenched their fists until their knuckles turned white; some had red eyes, yet stubbornly kept them open, as if afraid that if they lowered their heads, tears would fall. Others tilted their faces up, letting the rain wash over them, as if trying to use the rain to wash away their earlier cowardice.

But they never stopped.

The last person to follow was a young man who looked no more than eighteen or nineteen years old. He had his head down, as if he had made a great decision before taking that step.

His shoes sank into the mud with a "plop," splashing mud onto his leggings, but he ignored it and simply straightened his back a little.

This short group, heads down, strode forward and merged into the crowd on the right.

Their movements were very quiet, with a hint of embarrassment, like a group of children who had done something wrong, trying to admit their mistakes in front of adults, but not knowing how to save face.

But as they walked, their backs gradually straightened, their steps became more and more steady, and they walked with increasing determination. Each person who emerged created a silent ripple in the puddle.

Ripples spread from their feet, circle after circle, the murky water slowly expanding, hitting the boots of those nearby and breaking into even finer ripples. The ripples reflected the hazy sky, which was quickly scattered by new raindrops.

Zhao Tiezhu didn't turn around, but loosened his grip on the spear slightly. The rainwater that had gathered on the shaft flowed down the straight spear and into the puddles at his feet, mixing with the yellowish-brown mud and water, making them indistinguishable.

He squeezed his eyes shut, his Adam's apple bobbing as he forcefully suppressed the rising bitterness.

But many people still haven't moved.

The line on the left was still packed with people, far more than those who had left.

Behind them, a row of empty tents billowed in the wind, and the water that had accumulated on the tent tops overflowed and splashed down.

Further away, an empty flatbed cart used for transporting grain was stuck in the mud, its shaft tilted up, and rainwater dripped down the seams of the cart, forming a thin stream beneath it.

Liu Dabiao rolled his eyes, hidden by his helmet.

Are those people fools? Zhao Tiezhu tricked them into going to their deaths with just a few words? They're incredibly stupid.

He scoffed inwardly, but dared not utter a sound. He didn't want to meet that gaze again.

He still remembers Zhao Tiezhu's look; it was like a knife, sending chills down his spine.

Liu Dabiao crossed his arms again, shifted his weight to his other foot, tilted his head, and cast a sideways glance into the distance.

That gesture was as if to say: You bunch of idiots can go ahead and die, but I'm not going.

Several of his former comrades who had joined in the commotion earlier shrank back, their eyes darting around nervously.

Some pretended to bend down and organize their weapons, turning the scabbards over and over to look at them; some looked up at the sky, even though the rain was so heavy they could barely open their eyes, they refused to look down; and one kept rubbing his fingers, scrubbing away the mud between his fingers, and then letting the rain wash it away.

After the soldiers were gradually dispersed, Wang Meng began to take their count.

A layer of water had accumulated on the wooden planks of the command platform. When Wang Meng stepped on it, water squeezed out from the gaps in the planks, making a "squeak" sound.

The thick hemp ropes hanging from the edge of the platform were swollen from the rain, looking like wet snakes hanging from the edge of the platform, swaying slowly against the wooden planks when the wind blew.

He paced back and forth on the edge of the platform, looking down at the troops below.

The soldiers on the right stood in neat rows. Although the formation looked a bit disheveled from the rain, they all stood up straight. Many of the veterans still had the passion that hadn't faded on their faces. However, most of them were familiar faces.

Those were soldiers who had followed him for many years. Although he couldn't name some of them, they were all familiar faces.

Wang Meng counted rapidly in his mind: one team, two hundred; two teams, four hundred...

As he counted down, his expression gradually darkened.

There are barely eight thousand people.

We are still a full thousand short of the nine thousand that Lord Lin requested.

Wang Meng's Adam's apple bobbed, feeling both ashamed and angry. A fire rose from his dantian, burning his chest and making him feel suffocated, but he had nowhere to vent it, so he could only clench his fists, his knuckles making a few soft cracking sounds.

The command flag behind him, soaked by the rain, hung limply, its tassels at the corners tangled together, like a wet mop.

If it weren't for the fact that after capturing the capital, he sent most of the northern troops back to guard the border and other places, and many of these people were later re-enlisted, how could he not even be able to gather nine thousand men for Lord Lin!

He clenched his fist, his gloomy gaze sweeping over the group of soldiers on his left—a large group of short, fat men who didn't stand properly—his brows furrowing deeper and deeper.

Some of them had their heads drooping, some were leaning against others, and others were secretly wiping the rain off their faces with their sleeves, muttering something under their breath.

Several others huddled together with Liu Dabiao, heads close together, whispering amongst themselves, occasionally letting out a low chuckle.

Wang Meng's temples throbbed as he watched.

I've been too busy lately and haven't been paying much attention to recruitment. What kind of freaks have we ended up with?!

Now that this matter is over, we have to clean things up properly. His military camp isn't going to accept just any good-for-nothing.