The glow of the setting sun spilled across the prairie, mingling with the mangled flesh and corpses on the battlefield to form a unique dusk landscape.
Graeme, the victor, glared furiously at the soldiers under his command. Despite holding an absolute advantage, they had nearly let the enemy turn the battle around.
If he had not turned the tide at the critical moment by killing the enemy leader and shattering their morale, they might have been the ones lying dead now.
"Laugh!"
"You idiots, you can still laugh?
Did you stuff all my usual training into your pig brains?
Why didn't you form up against the enemy as you were trained to?
..."
Perhaps feeling that shouting alone was not satisfying enough, he did not keep his hands and feet idle while berating the Pigmen.
He either slapped one Pigman across the forehead or kicked another in the backside. The sight was truly painful to watch.
Yet this was Graeme's own method of training troops.
When dealing with the peculiar Pigmen, reasoning was utterly useless. The most effective method was still suppression through force.
There was no problem that could not be solved with a beating. If the lesson did not sink in deeply enough, then beat them again.
Whenever he tried to persuade them nicely, it always amounted to nothing. Whenever fists and feet were involved, everyone remembered it clearly.
It was as though any order given without beating them first was automatically deemed unimportant. Only tasks assigned after a beating had to be completed.
This bizarre behavior left Graeme both amused and exasperated. He truly could not imagine that he belonged to the same race as these idiots.
Whenever the night grew quiet, what he missed most were the Golden Pigs from his dreams. Compared with these fools,