The mercenaries who escaped death had retreated to the Heavy Scythe-wielders, their savage expressions returning. Who would have thought that, by accident, they would make it ashore.
Most of the mercenaries had lost their primary weapons and were now brandishing the daggers hidden in their boots.
The Heavy Scythe-wielders had also lost their three-layer iron tower shields, but the scythes were tethered to their iron armor by chains. Now, every large scythe was tightly clutched in the hands of these Pompeians.
"Three hundred men! We still have three hundred men!" cried a mercenary bearing the insignia of a squadron leader, his joy uncontainable.
Looking at their tiny opponents, which consisted only of goblins, hedgehogs, and skunks, and realizing that not a single beauty had escaped, the mercenaries felt that they had a reason to celebrate.
