Chapter 709: Eastern Battlefield

It was already dark when the transport team set off from the mine.

At the very front of the procession, a Blood Demon Sect Grandmaster rode atop a red-hoofed ox clad in dark red armor, his face ashen as iron frozen for three days.

Behind him followed forty innate masters, lined up on both sides, their hands on their weapons, their eyes constantly scanning the wind and snow on both sides.

Further behind were a dense mass of post-natal disciples, clad in leather armor and hunched over. No one spoke; only the sounds of footsteps and the panting of the red-hoofed oxen mingled together.

This transport team of two thousand people set off from a small Chixue mine on the outskirts of the Eastern Theater Command.

The destination is the eastern defense zone of Frost Abyss City, about 300 kilometers away as the crow flies. According to the normal walking speed of a Redhoofed Ox, it will take 15 hours to get there.

No one found those fifteen hours easy.

A thin, newly trained disciple huddled in the middle of the group, rubbing his frozen hands, and whispered to the person next to him, "Brother, do you think we'll make it this far alive?"

The person next to him didn't say anything, but just shrank his neck into his collar.

The thin disciple asked again, "Last month, my fellow villagers went on that trip; two thousand people went, and only three hundred came back. What do you think about our trip...?"

"Shut up." An older disciple turned around and glared at him. "Don't jinx it."

The thin disciple lowered his head and remained silent.

"Cheer up! Don't hunch over like wilted eggplants!" A centurion walked along the side of the column and shouted at the top of his lungs.

"Keep your eyes on both sides, and listen up! Whoever notices a sound, shout first!"

"What good would it do to shout..." a disciple muttered quietly.

"Those spirits, I don't know what method they used, hid underground, and even my senior brother couldn't find them. By the time he discovered them, it was already too late."

"Shut up! If you try to disrupt morale again, I'll punch you!"

The group fell silent again, with only the crunching of wheels on the frozen ground and the panting of the barehoofed oxen.

Suddenly, a grandmaster's voice came from ahead: "Hurry up and get through that narrow path ahead. There are ice crevasses on both sides; if you fall in, no one will be able to save you."

Everyone quickened their pace.

After walking for less than two hours, the road ahead ended.

A section of collapsed frozen soil, dozens of meters wide, lay in the middle of the road, covered with fresh snow, the depth of which was indistinguishable.

The grandmaster flew over the mound, glanced at it, landed, and waved his hand behind him: "Inner disciples, come up and clear it. Outer disciples, stay put and draw your swords."

Forty innate masters stepped forward, each using their own methods to clear the road.

Some people used bone-crushing whip kicks to break up the collapsed frozen soil, some used blood-fiber fingers to blast away the ice shards blocking their way, and some simply used blood-coagulating claws to break up large chunks of frozen soil and throw them to both sides.

A master wielding a heavy hammer swung it, creating deep pits with each strike, carving out a road wide enough for a car to pass through.

About half an hour later, the road was cleared, and the group continued forward. By the seventh hour, it was completely dark.

The master ordered everyone to rest on the spot and start a fire to cook.

The disciples scattered to find firewood the day after tomorrow, but where could they find firewood in this godforsaken place? Not even a blade of grass could grow on the frozen ground.

Someone rummaged through the car and found a few pieces of firewood that were frozen solid. They managed to light them, but the flames leaped up and were then pushed about by the wind.

The group squatted by the fire, bowls in hand, and no one spoke.

The firelight illuminated tired faces, with ice crystals clinging to their eyebrows and stubble.

A young disciple held his frozen fingers to the fire to warm them, but pulled them back after a while, muttering under his breath, "This godforsaken place, even a fire can't warm me up."

"Be careful with the firewood, we don't have much." The older disciple beside him handed him his bowl. "Have some soup; you have to leave tomorrow."

The young disciple took the soup, sipped it, and frowned. "This lousy vegetable soup again."

"It's good enough to have something to drink. Last time I was at that mining site in the south, I was out of food for three days. I was so hungry I wanted to boil my belt and eat it."

"That's nothing," another disciple leaned in and lowered his voice, "I heard from the second team that when they retreated last time, someone picked up a frozen bone in the snow, thinking it was rations, but then..."

"Alright, alright! Can't a person even eat in peace?"

"Okay, okay, I won't say anymore."

The man shrank back and took a couple of bites of his biscuit. As he chewed, he couldn't help but ask, "Speaking of which... are those Nightmare faction bastards coming tonight?"

The chewing sounds of the people next to him stopped at the same time.

"Can't you fucking say something auspicious?"

"I was just worried..."

"Worrying about you?! If you're really worried, shut your mouth, finish eating, and get your shift over with. Having something in your mouth is better than having nothing."

The crowd remained silent for a while, with only the crackling of the fire breaking out.

A little while later, someone else couldn't help but ask, "Hey, do you guys think... we'll make it to our destination safely?"

No one responded.

After a few moments, an older disciple in the corner slowly spoke up: "So what if we arrive? We'll have to come back after unloading the goods. It'll be three days of back and forth. We'll be lucky to get a good night's sleep."

"Stop talking, it's just making me more depressed."

Another disciple put his bowl on the ground and said, "I've figured it out. This is our fate. We'll die whether we're mining or transporting. We're going to die either way, so we might as well drink a few more mouthfuls of hot soup before we die."

"What you're saying is like farting."

"It's better to fart than to hold it in."

Several disciples around him chuckled softly, their laughter dry and lacking warmth.

After resting for five hours, the master gave the order and the team set off again.

Before dawn, the wind and snow were even denser than during the day, and the torchlight could only illuminate about ten meters away; beyond that, it was pitch black.

The barehoofed ox lowered its head and arched forward, its hooves making a dull thud as they trod in the snow.

It took another three hours to walk.

There were no ambushes, no undead, and no nightmare armies.

"Not bad luck," one disciple couldn't help but say, his voice tinged with a hint of disbelief and relief. "How far have we gone? Almost halfway, right?"

"More than halfway there." The older disciple beside him relaxed a bit. "We'll see the watchtowers of the eastern battlefield in a few more hours."

"Haha, if we really make it safely this time, I'll treat the whole team to drinks when we get back!"

"You said the same thing last time, then went back and pretended to be dead."

"I'll definitely treat you this time! I keep my word!"

Even the grandmasters at the front and the innate masters around them relaxed a bit.

We're not far from the eastern battlefield. As long as nothing goes wrong on this last stretch of the road, this trip will be a success.

We walked for another half hour.

Suddenly, a group of figures appeared in the snowstorm ahead.

The master immediately raised his hand, and the entire team stopped.

The red-hoofed ox snorted uneasily, and the disciples placed their hands on their weapons.

The group opposite them also spotted them, and someone quickly shouted, "Don't attack! We're on the same side! We're the transport team from the 31st Mine!"

The grandmaster flew over to take a look, then landed back, his expression softening somewhat, but his brows were still furrowed.

The caravan was reduced to about 500 men. All the barehoofed oxen that pulled the carts were gone. The ore was piled on a few broken carts with ropes tied to the shafts, and the men were pulling on their shoulders at the front.