Turin. Amid the thunder of artillery, billowing smoke rose into the air, gunpowder haze shrouding the entire city. The eagle banners snapping fiercely in the wind were already torn and tattered, as if they might fall at any moment.
Corpses lay sprawled amid the ruins of collapsed buildings. From time to time, wounded men let out miserable cries, their bleeding wounds faintly visible, yet no one stepped forward to tend to them.
The thick stench of blood mingled with the odor of sweat, filling the air and making it hard to breathe. Yet the war continued.
Outside the city, Italian soldiers had already launched their charge, surging like waves. From their mouths came cries that shook heaven and earth.
This was the cry of their souls. The voices spread from one to another, inspiring one another, driving away much of the nameless fear in their hearts.
Inside the fortresses, Gatlings still spat tongues of flame. The bullets dragged out long trails, swarming across the clear sky like a plague of locusts, and soldiers fell one after another.
Yet these concealed fire positions did not have long to celebrate. After the assault paused, shells soon poured down upon them, leaving nothing but ruins.
Once the bombardment ended, the Italian soldiers in the rear launched another attack. Heart-rending screams, frenzied slaughter, and blazing fires of war drove the soldiers of both sides ever deeper into madness, and the fighting grew increasingly fierce.
Aboard the airship, Morkes had lowered his binoculars, as though he could not bear to watch the scene below.
If he had not seen it with his own eyes, Morkes would never have believed that the troops fighting below were Italian soldiers.
Though the scene was somewhat chaotic and they clearly lacked training, the fighting spirit displayed by the Italians