The battlefield was quiet.
Snow continued to fall gently over the blood-soaked clearing, flakes melting as they touched the bodies strewn across the ground. Crimson painted the frost like spilled ink on parchment—five corpses, twisted, burned, sliced apart in unnatural ways. The fire from earlier had dimmed, leaving only faint orange coals and the acrid scent of blood and ash.
Trafalgar stumbled back, his knees buckling as he collapsed onto the frozen ground. He landed hard, sitting with his legs outstretched, chest heaving.
"Huf..."
His breath formed visible clouds in the cold, mixing with the steam rising from the freshly dead. His shirt clung to him—drenched in sweat, spotted with cuts and soot. The taste of iron lingered on his tongue.
He stared at the corpses for a long moment.
