In the late afternoon, the rain paused slightly.
The wet wood burned with a pungent smoky smell.
Rigid bodies were impaled on sharp, spiky stakes, and the corpses of mercenaries lay scattered across the ground.
Walking through the open area of this checkpoint, one could feel the distinct slippery and sticky sensation underfoot, a mix of blood and rainwater.
The once yellowish soil was now stained a shade resembling brown.
In front of the devastated camp, both Cléante and Belard wore grim expressions.
They never expected that those country bumpkin rebels could pull off such a slick combo and take over the entire camp.
"How did your encampment get like this, such a secure checkpoint, and not even a single message got sent out!" Belard was the first to attack.
Cléante suddenly turned his head, almost poking his finger right at Belard's nose: "I want to ask you! How did those short-haired ones get into the White Maple Mercenary Corps' clothes?"
