Marquis Wu of Wei

“Ah!”
A blood-curdling scream tore through the tent, wrenching the nearby soldiers from the clutches of their newly claimed dreams.
Though it was broad daylight, the battered and weary soldiers found themselves powerless before the onslaught of exhaustion. Now, to have this rare respite shattered—who could blame them for their simmering rage?
Some were poised to curse and vent their frustration, but a glance toward the source of the disturbance made them swallow their complaints.
“What kind of battle is this supposed to be?” one finally grumbled, and with that, the rest lay back down, resigned to chase sleep once more.

Inside the tent, a young man shot upright from the hard camp bed, gasping for breath like a wounded beast.
The searing pain contorted his once-handsome features, and though he was clad in armor, nothing could shield him from the agony wracking his body.
As his scream echoed, seven men hurried in from outside, their faces etched with anxious concern as their gazes fixed on the youth.
The newcomers wore battered scale armor, smudged with fresh and dried blood, the clatter of metal marking their every step.
At their head was a burly man with a bristling beard and a face weathered by hardship, a jagged scar slashing from his temple to his cheek, lending him a fearsome air.
All seven knelt on one knee around the bed, the bearded leader included, forming a protective circle about the young man.
Once kneeling, the bearded man spoke: “My lord, you’re awake.”
His voice was not as rough as one might expe