On the burnt wooden bridge, traces of dark red embers still lingered.
The ground was pitch black, and the ruins were scattered. The bodies of the Night Guards were arranged neatly, exuding a strong odor of decay.
A butterfly danced in the morning sunlight, fluttering around this small yet oddly charming mound of corpses.
Cléante and Belard stood before the ruins.
Their faces showed neither sorrow nor joy, revealing a serene calm that comes after a profound realization.
It was the numbness after despair, the enlightenment after numbness, and the despair upon facing reality after enlightenment.
Belard led 800 troops, Cléante commanded 500, and the drafted Armed Farmers and other militia numbered nearly 1,200, making a total of 2,500 soldiers, with thirteen checkpoints established.
Yet they still failed to stop Horn with his 1,200 heavily laden farmers.
"Have you tracked where they went?" Belard asked Cléante, his tone reflecting a rare bland friendliness.
