The Baron surveyed the scene. The battlefield had gradually quieted. All the Knights of Bastia had fallen; only wails and moans echoed in his ears.
The soldiers were the ones still standing. They hadn't calmed down from the recent combat, their faces still alight with frenzy, their fiery eyes fixed in his direction.
Reynard alone could match him blow for blow. If these soldiers were to attack, a single volley would be enough to kill him.
But the Baron didn't care. His gaze lingered on Alvin, who lay on the ground, unmoving, and he couldn't help but let out a deep sigh.
Defeated…
Who would have thought that their fully armed Knights of Bastia would lose to the soldiers of a declining Lord?
It was simply a joke, and a tremendous disgrace.
Before the battle, they had spoken boldly, but then they were beaten into incoherence. What sort of magic did this land possess?
