It was hardly a shock that the remaining dregs of the enemy forces were systematically crushed within the next half an hour. The battle had reached its inevitable, bloody conclusion.
My warriors, alongside my core team, were practically vibrating with suppressed adrenaline and lingering stress; they needed an outlet, and the surviving monsters provided the perfect canvas for their violence.
They didn't just fight; they vented. Every swing of a sword and every pulse of magic was an exorcism of the fear they had felt when the illusionists first breached the chariot.
As for me, the thrill of the melee had long since faded. I lacked the desire to stand by and watch the cleanup. A settled victory was already set in stone, written in the mounting piles of kobold and werewolf corpses.
To be brutally honest with myself, it was an incomplete victory—marred by the exhaustion of my chariot and the narrowness of our survival—but it was a win nonetheless.
