The lizardmen ran away with all their might, or at least the remaining ones when they saw their kin being slaughtered like pigs in front of a butcher's cleaver. Their earlier patience evaporated into raw survival, bodies slipping between trunks and underbrush with that reptilian speed that made pursuit a waste of effort.
They hissed as they retreated, more insulted than afraid at first, then properly afraid once they realized fear was the only useful emotion left. Ludwig watched the last of the tails vanish into green shadow and noted the most important detail: none of them tried to regroup. None of them tried to drag a wounded comrade.
Whatever discipline they had came from numbers, not loyalty.
It wasn't just a losing battle; it was a massacre led by one orc with a freakishly large blade. Gale hadn't fought like a brute swinging for spectacle. He fought like a guillotine that had learned to move.
