As Gron regrouped his troops and tried to make one last desperate struggle, Thomas witnessed it all. He watched the blood-soaked Sauron general use slaughter and terror to stop the routed men, then use lies and incitement to gather the remnants into an army once more.
He watched the Sauron soldiers who had already abandoned all resistance and cared only about fleeing for their lives, their eyes once again gleaming with savagery under Gron's urging as they tightened their grips on their weapons, seemingly truly intending to fight one last battle as trapped beasts.
An icy fury replaced the emptiness and confusion within Thomas, blazing anew in his chest.
No! He could not let them reorganize! He could not let them have another chance to kill more Carnford People! He had finally witnessed the defeat of these oppressors, these butchers. He would never allow them any chance to turn the tables!
He did not know what he was anymore—a Sauron deserter? A Goldspur survivor? None of that mattered now. What mattered was that he knew what he had to do.
Keep killing! Kill every last one of these Sauron!
He had always been Goldspur! He was born on Goldspur soil. His parents, his family, his fellow countrymen—all had been killed by these Sauron! All these years, he had survived in humiliation and endured every burden only to stay alive. But now, he did not want to hide anymore!
He would fight openly and honorably, like a true Goldspur! He would help the Carnford People wipe out these invaders, these butchers, once and for all! That was the only conviction he had left!
He lowered his gaze to the Flintlock Rifle in his hand, already emptied of ammunition, and casually tossed it to the ground. Then he bent down beside Einar's