Li Shude and others were already at Yemen Pass, holding out to death, while they saw more and more wounded within the city, and the medicinal herbs gradually running short, food reserves also dwindling, arrows feared not to last much longer.
An invisible pressure was steadily building.
Li Shude patted the wall and lamented: "Now it is already September, the autumn chill is strong, I reckon we can't hold out for a few more days. If I die here today, I will take my own life. I must not let these Western Regions people taint my reputation."
Xiahou Duan gripped his battle knife, his armor stained with a layer of dried and coagulated blood, remained silent upon hearing these words. They were facing the most brutal situation for defenders—arrows running out, food exhausted, reinforcements not arriving.
"I, your humble officer, will..."
