"Sir, I can't run anymore. " A northern warrior had a pained expression on his face as he covered his injured shoulder with his hand while running.
"Hold on , soon we will reach safety. " Marx looked back at the injured soldier, his face was pale, his forehead was covered with beads of sweat, and blood was flowing from his shoulder to his pants.
Marx knew that the soldier would probably not last much longer, but he could not stop. There were men behind them, and those men were not of the Western army, but of the Northern army.
This is precisely what makes Marx angry.
When he was ordered to lead his men in a retreat, they were actually ambushed on their way back down the road. He had assumed that the men with weapons aimed at them were Westerners, but he did not realize that they were actually Northerners.
