If only the leader had been attacked by a vicious dog, it might not have been enough to lure the criminals out. But at this moment, Dalia did something. Without even looking at Mohnitz, who was still grappling with Pick, she stepped forward and crouched in front of Althea, saying, "Hang in there." She then used her right hand to hold the girl's waist and pulled her left hand behind her neck. Together, they stood up. When they had just stood up, Althea's right toe touched the ground, and her injured leg suddenly contracted upwards, but she endured the pain without making a sound, trying to maintain her balance.
"Lean on me a bit more," Dalia said, then helped the girl walk back. Althea, who could basically only touch the ground with her left leg, understood that she couldn't rely solely on Dalia to drag her. She tried to divert her attention away from the wound, pushing her left foot forward with more force so that Dalia, who was carrying her, could walk faster. If the burden of walking on one leg caused an imbalance, she would use the front part of her right foot to touch the ground temporarily to avoid falling.
Dalia's arms and back quickly became sore from knowing that she chose this method because she knew she couldn't lift Althea and escape. But after only a few steps, she felt a wave of nausea and discomfort, as well as a sharp, hook-like pain in the back of her brain. She was still in the recovery period and shouldn't exert herself too much. However, she had no other choice, and Althea's presence beside her was driving them both to continue, not through words but through the support of their bodies and the sound of their breath, symbolizing their vitality.
Dalia looked ahead, searching for Jorgen, who was several tens of yards away. She quickly realized that she had made the right decision: "I did the right thing." This thought brought her more will to survive and endurance, and she and Althea did their best to speed up. Even though they were walking on flat ground, it felt as if they were climbing a steep slope covered in mud and quicksand. But they had to keep going.
Mohnitz didn't have time to give orders. He punched Pick in the eye socket, knocking it over, and when it stood up again as if it hadn't been harmed at all, he instinctively used the forearm armor to protect his body because the oversized blade was of no use. Pick bit the armor, and Mohnitz threw it away. Then, he turned his head and saw that the two women were more than ten yards away. He was just about to give orders to the people in the house, but Pick pounced on him again, biting his shoulder and tearing off a piece of flesh. When he heard the sound of flesh and blood separating from his left side of his head, he finally realized that there was something wrong with this dog.
At this point, he didn't need to give orders anymore. Kaelaman led his men to help Mohnitz, and the rest rushed towards the two women.
Dalia, you did the right thing. Jorgen raised his right hand high, ready to give the command. In this situation, there was no need for covert signals. Joseph had already moved forward with some of the Night Watchmen to support the two women, but Jorgen had to wait. He tried hard not to look at Dalia and Althea, but to observe the footsteps and distance of the thugs behind her. Even so, his gaze unavoidably encompassed the blood that Althea had been dripping all the way, and Dalia's strenuous yet solid steps. Hold on, both of you. Just five more steps. Five steps are enough.
From the moment the thugs left the room, only a few seconds had passed, but in Jorgen's eyes, those seconds were divided into hundreds of moments. He had hoped that the two would take five more steps, but that was too risky, and when they had just taken their fourth step, he waved his hand to give the order.
Many short figures stood up from the low grass on both sides. Crude makeshift spears were thrown, piercing into the enemy's camp. They didn't hit accurately, but effectively halted the criminals' progress. They stopped and looked to both sides, where they saw a group of Breakers. These small, alien creatures emitted vague cries and each held a piece of seaweed-sticky fishing net, spinning it in the air before hurling it forward. For the violent thugs who sought violence, the frail and gloomy Breakers were the most detested lower race, and many of them, infuriated by the previous spear attacks, were about to rush forward and kill these inconspicuous assailants when they were ensnared by the fishing nets. As they tried to break free from the damp nets, another row of Breakers launched a second round of spear attacks. Although just as inaccurate, it was different when facing stationary targets.
A spear struck from behind Dalia, shaving off a strand of hair and pinning her skirt to the ground. This sudden obstacle caused both of them to lose their balance, and they nearly fell. A thug who had caught up from behind reached out to grab Dalia, but his forearm was immediately chopped off. It was Joseph; he and the Night Watchmen had arrived at the scene. He pulled out the spear, supported the two women, and entrusted them to his comrades behind him.
Jorgen didn't immediately step forward to join the fight; his primary responsibility was still to observe and give orders, and the current situation aligned with his expectations. According to the original plan, the Night Watchmen had surrounded the enemy and concentrated their forces to attack the thugs entangled in fishing nets. Because no orders were given, the thugs who could still move lost almost all of their cohesion: some tried to rush towards the Breakers on both sides for revenge, some faced off against the Night Watchmen, and some attempted to help their comrades escape the entanglement of the fishing nets. In such a situation, although some of the thugs still had a strong offensive capability, the battle quickly shifted in favor of the Night Watchmen, who excelled in coordinated actions. After a rapid reduction in the number of enemies caught in the fishing nets, the Night Watchmen created many situations of two against one, or even three against one.
Dalia and Althea, protected by two Night Watchmen, returned to their side. The medical personnel who had been prepared in advance helped Althea onto a stretcher, but Dalia didn't pay attention to the doctor's outstretched hand and ran to Jorgen. Jorgen held her.
"You did well."
Dalia rested her forehead against his chest, her breath heavy.
"I... feel a bit dizzy."
Jorgen called the doctor over, but Dalia still clung tightly to his upper arm, unmoving. The doctor felt a bit awkward in this situation.
"Dalia, this is still a battlefield. Let the doctor take care of you."
She lifted her head, tears forming at the corners of her eyes, a look far from simple sorrow or joy. She carried with her all the fear and awe of death as she slowly walked towards the enemy's side, but in the end, she suppressed the unstable desire to succumb to her negative self, supporting the living Althea as she walked back. Jorgen realized that although she had acted rashly and stubbornly several times in a row, it didn't mean she wouldn't bear responsibility for it. She transcended her own responsibility.
Dalia's eyes were asking Jorgen for something, and it wasn't just a simple word of encouragement or comfort. It wasn't the look of a warrior seeking payment for a completed mission but rather something deeper, like searching for an unknown ore beneath a desolate plain. Jorgen could smell the mixture of blood and windblown sand around her.
"I'll be right back," Jorgen said, handing Dalia over to the doctor. She still hadn't said or perhaps even thought of anything. Jorgen drew his dagger and walked towards the battlefield.
A Breaker suddenly stood in his path.
"Hey, Jorgen. Did Kumi help out a lot, huh?"
"It looks like your people didn't get hurt. You can withdraw them now."
"Who said they didn't get hurt? Didn't you see, some idiot got speared in the front row."
"But why is there no commotion at all?"
"Because both of them are real Breakers, their minds have long decayed into a mess of seaweed, they don't even understand the meaning of life and death. Of course, Kumi isn't a Breaker; he's a Draenei. Remember that."
"But what about the hundred Draenei crystal shards? You can collect them from the Watchtower yourself."
"A hundred? Kumi said someone died; you heartless guy."
"A hundred and five. I don't have time to haggle with you right now, that's the deal. Win-win?"
"You drive a hard bargain. And don't let Kumi find out if there are fake shards mixed in; otherwise, Kumi will use this harpoon..."
"Using a harpoon, how about that?"
"Not a bad idea. When will these darned Broken realize how much of a personal sacrifice Koomisha made to get everyone back to our homeland? Koomisha is taking the idiots and retreating, so take your time cleaning up, Jorgen. Don't go and die on me."
Before leaving, Kumi spat out a white feather from her wide green teeth onto the ground. "Pah, talking about stuff stuck in my teeth all the time... Alright, you all get back!"
During this conversation, the battle had reached a point of no return. Joseph and the Night Watchers had surrounded the remaining two main enemies: Mohnitz and Kaelaman. Mohnitz's left shoulder was still bleeding, and Kaelaman had several knife wounds on his arms. Jorgen arrived in the midst of the encirclement and saw Pick lying motionless six or seven paces away, his entrails flowing from a massive wound in his lower abdomen. Jorgen's first thought was that it was fortunate that Althea wasn't here. It was a strange feeling; Pick had arguably turned the tide of battle, but Jorgen couldn't summon any sympathy for him. In fact, his extraordinary aggression just moments ago left Jorgen uneasy.
In front of Mohnitz and Kaelaman lay the bodies of three Night Watchers, all dead from massive wounds that had torn their flesh apart. It was clear that this had some deterrent effect on the Night Watchers. They gradually closed in, but Kaelaman swung his axe once, causing them to cautiously step back.
"Shouldn't we avoid more casualties?" Jorgen said to Joseph. "Let me try to persuade him."
"No, they killed my men, they must pay for it."
This was, after all, a matter for Darkhaven. Jorgen didn't intend to stop him.
Joseph and two of his Night Watchmen advanced, taking cover as they approached the front where Kellam stood. Joseph swung his sword first, but Kellam deflected the blow with a swing of his axe, sending the longsword flying from Joseph's right
hand. He frowned and picked up the sword, switching it to his left hand and attacking once more. Two more Night Watchmen joined in, creating a five-to-one situation. Kellam's chest heaved as he continued to take deep breaths, his axe swings
still powerful but lacking precision, as if he were recklessly expending his life's force, full of harm. His despair was not unfounded, as the five-to-one quickly became a seven-to-one situation with more Night Watchmen coming to Joseph's aid.
In the end, an aimless swing by Kellam gave Joseph an opportunity to sever his forearm, with flesh and a heavy axe falling to the ground together, the handle crushing his fingers. Kellam began to swing his fists but failed to hit anyone. Three
Night Watchmen's longswords pierced his back almost simultaneously. He fell to the ground, his right leg near his severed hand, no longer moving. Joseph thrust his knife into Kellam's neck and withdrew it.
There was only Mohnitz left, and he did not have a strong desire to counterattack. He leaned against the wall with his hands hanging down and the tip of his knife pressed to the ground. Pik's bite not only dug out the flesh of his shoulder, but
the wound even extended to the surface of his neck. He had lost too much blood, and his efforts to kill two Nightwatchmen just now made him deteriorate faster, with two more wounds on his back and side. He lifted his chin slightly, surveying
the shrinking encirclement.
Jorgen put his dagger back into its sheath. There was nothing more for him to do. It was clear to him that both Mohnitz and Kaelaman were exceptionally skilled warriors, but that didn't mean they would achieve a glorious end fitting their status, a fact Jorgen understood well.
"Is this it?" Mohnitz glanced at Pick and then at Kaelaman's lifeless body. "I... lost to a dog."
"I would have liked to admire your strategy, a desperate and unreserved one. But losing is just losing," Jorgen stated. "Do you want to drop your weapon?"
"No." Mohnitz struggled to stand upright, raising his longsword. "You two," he pointed his sword at Joseph and then at Jorgen, "you are slyer dogs than the Gondore. I am not. I am..."
As Joseph approached, Mohnitz gripped the blade with both hands and drove the tip into his own chest. He fell to the ground, not dying immediately, still muttering unclear words as his body slowly curled up. When the blood reached the soles of his feet, he died.
It was over. Jorgen turned to look at the bodies of the brigands, some trapped in the fishing nets, others sprawled in the mud. The night guards had likely lost around ten people. Nevertheless, this could still be considered a complete victory. Since the death of Bower, all the oppressive feelings that had accumulated over the town, like a dark cloud, seemed to dissolve into the blood. It was as if all the suspicions, difficulties, and torment between Darkshire, the Everlock family, and Military Intelligence Section Seven had lost their evidence of existence. At this moment, the only solution to the problem was the slaughter.
Just then, Jorgen heard a commotion behind him. He turned around to see several night guards who had intended to tend to Mohnitz's body stepping back. Meanwhile, Pick, with its ruptured entrails, was feasting on Mohnitz's head.
It was eating him: biting off his nose, sucking out his eyeballs, and lapping up the fresh blood from the ground. Its own innards were hanging on the ground, but it was nonchalantly breaking down and swallowing Mohnitz's body. It turned its neck to look at Jorgen, chewing on a piece of flesh as blood dripped from the side of its mouth.