Gabella's Crisis

The setting sun was as red as blood, its afterglow shrouding the desolate road along which the Gabellan army retreated.

The soldiers' steps were heavy and disordered, and the scraping of their soles against the ground was especially grating. Their armor was caked with mud and blood, their helmets askew, their eyes hollow, as though they were a host of soulless shells. Their once-high morale had vanished without a trace, replaced by endless frustration and dejection.

Occasional low coughs and pained moans came from the ranks. The wounded were supported by their comrades, staggering forward. Their wounds had not been properly treated, and the stench of blood filled the air, attracting vultures that circled overhead. The carrion birds shrieked and hissed uneasily, their cries sharp and brief, like the mocking laughter of the Grim Reaper.

Whenever the slightest stir came from nearby, it triggered a commotion. Some people cried out under their breath, others tightened their grips on their weapons, and everyone nervously scanned their surroundings.

The army's commander, Wowen Ruiz, rode on horseback with a dark expression, repeatedly glancing over his shoulder.

"Make the soldiers move faster!"

His order was brief and harsh, but a trace of weakness seeped through his voice. The officers and soldiers no longer trusted his command; they merely carried out his orders mechanically.

All kinds of rumors circulated through the ranks. Some said the Holy See's war elephants had caught up with them, while others claimed the road ahead had been sealed off by enemy forces. These rumors gnawed at their will like venomous snakes, shrouding the entire army in panic.

A burst of hoofbeats came from the distance. The soldiers immediately halted, holding their breath as the hands gripping their weapons trembled slightly. Some cursed under their breath, while others prayed in silence.