The night deepened.
Zhao Changhe staggered out of the tent.
Immediately, a guard apologetically blocked his way and asked in less-than-standard Central Plains official speech, "Mr. Zhao, where are you going?"
Zhao Changhe glared at him, "What? Am I a guest or a prisoner? Is it your business where I go?"
"Uh, no, it's just that this is a military camp, and it's not good to wander around..."
Zhao Changhe swept his gaze over the guards and smiled, "Has your Khan ever said to serve esteemed guests well?"
"Yes, yes..."
While the guards were speaking, for some unknown reason, they gradually felt increasing respect for Mr. Zhao. The Khan's instructions to serve him well magnified infinitely, and the secret orders to keep him from leaving gradually slipped from their minds.
Not just one guard felt this way; nearly all those swept by Zhao Changhe's gaze simultaneously experienced this feeling, their thoughts led astray by his words, becoming evermore confused.
