Metzel was exhausted.
The sword was never this heavy in his arms before and everything he slashed, it felt as though he was using up his remaining strength. He couldn't differentiate companions from enemies anymore. He brandished his sword innately at the black figure before him and that was his only countermeasure for dealing with this situation. Metzel fended off the enemies with his holy flames while his companions were responsible for annihilating the creatures that had broken through the silver-whitish flame barrier. However, how long could they sustain by doing this? Metzel didn't know and he couldn't grasp the elapsing time. Had one second, one minute, or one hour passed? These questions became meaningless to Metzel. Initially, these mercenaries thought that this would be the only wave of undead creatures and they would be fine after dealing with them. However, the never-ending stream of attacks had debilitated them mentally and physically.
