Below the pass, the Alliance swarmed in for the attack.
Every moment, someone died, and there were panicked deserters who shrank from advancing.
However, the dense phalanx ruthlessly blocked their route of retreat with blood, severing their only way out.
To die behind, or to die beneath the city walls.
For the rulers of the Nations, these conscripted armies or slaves used as cannon fodder were of no concern.
Their sole purpose was to exhaust the enemy's vigor, for a fatal blow at the critical moment.
"How are the preparations on the Trojans' side?"
"Noon has passed, if we delay any longer, even if we successfully break through this pass, it will probably be night time."
"And the battlefield at night... you know what happens."
Watching the distant battle, Agamemnon's tall frame had already shed his heavy armor.
Next to him, the King of Sparta, Menelaus, held a long spear and shield, the gaps in his leather armor revealing a body scarred.
