Standing on the mound, Delawan's hanging hands gradually tightened around the hem of his clothes.
The ranks of the church army flowed down from the hillside in a disordered manner, but every few dozen steps, spheres of light would ascend and fall within the ranks.
The land servants, as the most elite, walked at the back, with knights pressuring each flank.
Leading at the front were the recruited guards and armored soldiers.
Their faces were flushed and purplish, eyes bloodshot, even the white steam from their mouths carried tinges of blood color.
Of course, this was something Delawan couldn't see; he could only see the exceptionally swift speed of the charging guards.
In almost the blink of an eye, they crossed a distance of three to four hundred meters, gripping their weapons as they advanced toward the riverside.
The whistling sound rang out once more, still the clock rounds, but this time the enemy's ranks included monks who quickly dispersed the interference using grace.
