The setting sun was blood-red, its lingering rays spilling across the earth and illuminating the wreckage strewn everywhere. The air reeked of blood and gunpowder.
From time to time, dark-brown vultures swooped down from the sky and snatched chunks of flesh from the ground. The atmosphere was especially eerie, as though they were standing in hell itself.
The soldiers busy clearing the battlefield had no mind to spare for such things. Having just gone through a major battle, everyone was exhausted in body and spirit. They only wanted to gather up their comrades' remains as quickly as possible and send them back into God's embrace.
As for the enemy's corpses, there was no need for them to trouble themselves. They could simply leave them to the recruited Zulus—dig a hole anywhere and bury them.
There was no helping it. All sorts of accidents could happen on a battlefield. Someone might have fainted unexpectedly, or been wounded by a bullet and fallen unconscious. If such people were left to the unreliable Zulus, they might all end up buried alive.
If it was the enemy, then so be it. Buried was buried. But if their own comrades were handled that way, it would be a tragedy.
Thus, when clearing the battlefield, Boer Republic soldiers always led the Zulu laborers. The former inspected and gave orders, while the latter carried the stretchers.
Not far away, a Boer officer approached with several soldiers. He was a middle-aged man in his forties or fifties, tall and lean, with golden hair and a pair of eyes that made him seem particularly vigorous and resolute.
The man was Viscount Fikeni, inspecting the battlefield. If one was going to put on a show, one had to see it through; everyone who had participated in the battle had changed