He sat there, dead-eyed for the longest of times. So many had died. Even their master, Nakatane, was dead. What way forward was there from this?
The sun warmed the back of his head, rendering his mind even more num. He was grateful for it, as it allowed him to shut out his thoughts. He glanced around - unseeing, and unfeeling - at all who were left.
By the looks of them, even they would not survive. Morohira's chest was a mess of bullet holes and stab wounds – it was a wonder he was still breathing. Those wounds needed closing and cleansing immediately, else they were liable to get infected.
Rokkaku next to him was in even worse shape, and some of the wounds were still bleeding. Most of them preferred not to look at their own bodies, given how bashed up they were. Truly, them being alive was a matter of luck. A mere 11 men out of 130.
