The corpses split open, revealing charred shells, spilling crimson vines and flesh-colored petals, like a kind of morbid greenhouse crazily spreading across the battlefield.
The vines wrapped around the fallen magical beasts, snapping their necks, vine roots drilled into the wounds of Knights, piercing deep into flesh as if nurturing rage with corpses.
Injured magical beasts neighed and fell to the ground, only to stand again in the blink of an eye, suckled by the red mist, their eyes crimson, their steps faster and more vicious than when alive.
The mist engulfed the charging Knights, obscuring their forms, but amplifying their murderous intent.
Those who should have faltered under wounds, flames, and arrows now roared, charging directly toward the heights of the cliff, where hidden crossbowmen and snipers lay in wait.
Louis observed the scene coldly through a monocular.
