The ground was a mess of dirt, blood, and the broken bodies of beasts. The acrid scent of blood and sweat filled the air. Soldiers moved like ghosts, silent, exhausted, but vigilant.
Manas and Billy's squad had finally cleared the perimeter. Their bodies bore fresh cuts and bruises, and their faces were streaked with dirt and dried blood. Their breathing was heavy but controlled—seasoned warriors who knew how to stay sharp even when drained.
Billy wiped his face with a bloodstained cloth, his eyes scanning the treeline. His grip on his tactical knife remained firm. He glanced at Manas, who was leaning on his spear, shoulders rising and falling steadily. They didn't need to speak. The look was enough.
"Another pack like that, and we'll be carrying bodies back instead of walking," Manas muttered, eyes still on the treeline.
