The skirmish that had taken place in the dead of night only barely ended as the sky gradually brightened.
Last night, roughly two or three thousand Undead had ambushed Prince Arthas and his men at their camp. Although the monsters were merely Zombies, skeletons, and a small number of Ghouls, they had still inflicted around a hundred casualties on the brave soldiers of Lordaeron while they were caught unprepared.
However, with the help of the two priests traveling with the army and Prince Arthas's Holy Light, the plague toxins in the wounded soldiers' bodies were quickly purged. The number of deaths was kept relatively low, and the camp was spared an overly grim atmosphere.
To prevent the Undead from returning, Prince Arthas had already ordered his few knights to split up and begin patrolling the area within a mile of the camp, especially toward the east, as soon as dawn broke. They would not allow any enemies that might still be lurking nearby to disturb their camp again.
At that moment, Hermione, Harry, Pheobe, and Krum sat blankly on a pile of scattered supply crates. Their clothes, hair, and faces were all messy and disheveled. Clearly, they had endured a less-than-pleasant night.
"It's all over, right?"
"I think so..."
"So this is what a real battlefield is like?"
"I don't know..."
"What should we do next?"
"Don't know..."
"Can we go back? I kind of miss Hogwarts's big beds..."
"Don't know..."
"Harry, can you say something besides 'I don't know'?"
"Sorry, I can't..."
"..."
Under these circumstances, after Viktor Krum had stared at the wreckage in the camp, as well as the soldiers and Undead corpses lying in disarray, and sighed, the four of them began exchanging one line after another.
Their conversation was not particularly meaningful. It was merely