The corpses' charred shells split open, spilling crimson vines and flesh-colored petals, like some diseased greenhouse spreading wildly across the battlefield.
Vines coiled around dead magical beasts, snapping their necks. Roots burrowed into the knights' wounds and plunged deep into their flesh, as though using the corpses to incubate rage.
Wounded magical beasts collapsed with shrill cries, only to rise again moments later, nourished by the red mist. Their eyes burned crimson, and their movements were faster and fiercer than when they had been alive.
The mist swallowed the charging knights, obscuring their figures while amplifying their killing intent.
Those who should have been stopped by wounds, flames, and arrows instead roared and lunged toward the concealed crossbowmen and sniper positions high on the mountainside.
Louis watched the scene coldly through his spyglass.
He had already learned from the daily intelligence reports and the Duke's letters that this monstrous legion possessed a bizarre ability: the dead could multiply the strength of the living.
Yet when he witnessed that frenzied charge, heedless of all damage, a flicker of surprise still stirred within him.
That was not courage, but a tide of madness dragged onto the battlefield by death and fury.
It could increase their strength four or fivefold and strip away their fear entirely.
His expression remained calm. He merely raised a hand slightly and ordered the soldiers behind him, "Bring out the Frostbite Soul-Shaker Bombs. Load every last one."
Several knights assigned to heavy weapons immediately sprang into action. They opened the heavy, iron-locked chests and retrieved short, thick projectiles covered in blue magical inscriptions, their centers faintly glowing black.
They quickly loaded them into short-barreled launchers, where they gleamed against the metal interiors.
Levers pressed down, and a low thunderous report struck the air.
One projectile after another trailed