"Boom!" "Boom!"
The deafening roar of hundreds of heavy artillery firing in unison.
Huge projectiles hit the ground, dirt erupting everywhere.
Those directly hit by the solid cannonballs naturally turned into a mist of blood, while those grazed were miserably maimed with limbs torn apart.
The cries of agony from those injured by the shelling echoed across the battlefield, exceptionally harrowing.
Smoke rolling, flesh flying, screams lingering.
The battlefield seemed like purgatory.
When Marco launched his attack, the usually composed and prudent General Deschamps uncharacteristically went personally to the front lines to urge the troops forward.
He understood politics, but he never meddled.
He's merely a soldier, bound to carry out the orders of the president.
Who the president is, isn't his concern.
He had some sympathy for Alina, but not much.
In his view, since Alina had left, she should have reclined abroad rather than returned to incite rebellion.
