The sky turned dark with smoke while the ground was dyed red with blood. As far as Damon's eyes could see, he saw bodies covering the ground.
"Are you alright, my lord." the man could not help but ask. It had been an hour. All the survivors had gone for their treatment. Their exhausted bodies were resting even if it meant to lay on the ground. But Damon did not move. He kept staring at distance as if he had turned into a statue.
"How many?" the question stirred the man. He bowed his head as if he did not hear it.
"How many, Gaston!" the man lowered his head as if praying for the lost souls.
"Too many to count, my lord. But if I still take a number, around two hundred of them." Damon closed his eyes. Mourning for the death of soldiers.
Half of them wanted to kill him in this expedition. Half were too weak to protect themselves while a few were just unlucky.
