But these scattered survivors had finally managed to regroup. They looked at one another, unable to hide the fear in each other's eyes.
Although the child's attack had been partly a fluke, and they had also underestimated him, if he launched another attack like that, their casualties would surely keep mounting.
Most importantly, their losses had been staggering—so staggering that they could barely summon the will to fight.
All they could think about now was their own safety. Could they make it out of this hellhole alive?
No one who had survived this long was a fool. Every one of them understood that they had stepped straight into the jaws of death.
Even the scouts they had sent out had been manipulated into feeding them false information, unwittingly becoming accomplices to the enemy.
What did that mean?
It meant the enemy had been monitoring their every move from the beginning. They had reached this place not because they were capable of getting here, but because the enemy had lured them in.
And the little brat who had just appeared was obviously only the first strike. It wasn't that the child hadn't wanted to wipe them all out. The enemy clearly had more tricks up their sleeve.
That first strike alone had dealt them devastating losses, leaving them with barely a third of their original force. How were they supposed to handle the next wave of attacks? How many more would die?
A heavy, hopeless atmosphere pressed down on everyone. If Black Skin hadn't still been there, giving them someone to rally around, they would have long since dropped their weapons and fled in every direction.
"Master Black, I've tallied things up. We've got about fifty men left who can still fight. Most of them are our Black Tiger Camp elites."