The snowstorm gradually subsided. The bridgehead camp west of the Archon Bridge lay in ruins, and the air reeked of blood.
The retreating knights slumped in the snow. Some gulped down Blue Blood Potion to recover their strength, while others clutched severed limbs and groaned through clenched teeth. More routed soldiers supported one another as they stumbled into the cramped recovery area.
Diana was directing several logistics soldiers as they carried the last crates of supplies toward the bridgehead.
"This is what you call command?"
A furious shout tore through the camp. Reinhardt charged over, the Fifth-Rank Knight covered in blood. His mithril armor was riddled with dents, like a battered tin can.
He seized Diana by the arm, his grip so fierce it nearly crushed the countess's armguard.
"Ten minutes! Just ten minutes!"
Reinhardt's eyes were bloodshot, his fury unrestrained.
"A line that should have held for half an hour was smashed through in ten minutes! Retreating and fleeing all the way-are you trying to hand them the bridge? Is this the result you wanted? Huh?"
Yet the protest or struggle he had expected never came.
Diana merely watched him in silence.
Her gaze held neither anger nor fear. Like a silent statue, she let him rage.
Under that gaze, Reinhardt felt like a clown throwing a tantrum. Only then did he realize he was shouting at a noble of equal standing. Shame over his discourtesy overwhelmed his anger. His fingers stiffly loosened, and his throat went dry as he looked at the marks he had left on Diana's armguard.
Diana stepped back half a pace, then glanced over the pale-faced knights gasping for breath.
"Look at them, Reinhardt. If we hadn't fallen back those few hundred meters, they would never have drawn another breath. Do you want a