Night came for the second time over the plains of Calais.
The once-proud knights of Europa were currently huddled together around small campfires.
Every time they closed their eyes, their minds tortured them with the images of their friends dying beneath the rain of jagged iron, or being blown to ashes by the devil's clay hidden beneath the ground.
"Cough, cough~" A sick voice echoed throughout the camp, followed by the voices of many sick warriors.
A lot of people were sick. Many more were severely wounded from the shrapnel.
"Listen to them out there, Odo," Lothair muttered, gesturing toward the canvas walls. "Half the men are coughing up their lungs from the smoke, and the other half are too terrified to even drop their swords to sleep. The morale of this army is completely broken. If we order them to march on those walls tomorrow, they will drop their banners and run."
