Chris had worked through the night. It was not until noon the next day that he finally had men settle the captured prisoners of war and bring them under control, housing them in their army's original camp.
Chris had someone make a rough count of the prisoners, including both routed soldiers and civilian laborers. There were over twelve thousand. Aside from the three thousand or so killed or badly wounded on the battlefield, the remaining five thousand had undoubtedly fled.
Let them run. Every village within fifty kilometers has been cleared out anyway. They'll soon come back with empty stomachs.
There was no misunderstanding here: Chris had never carried out any scorched-earth operations. The Republic had done all that itself.
The Restoration Army consisted of high-ranking nobles, and their conduct was equally aristocratic. With their noses in the air, they overlooked and ignored the common folk beneath their feet, barely remembering their existence except when collecting taxes.
That was not a good thing, but it was not entirely bad, either. At least when fighting a war, the Restoration Army had never thought of forcibly conscripting locals to fill trenches while confiscating the last scraps of food in their homes.
The Republic Third Infantry Regiment, however, had done exactly that. Chris had no idea what was wrong with them, marching off to war without enough provisions. Interrogations of the surrendered officers revealed that they had nearly run out of food while taking a detour across Bolas Gorge. The supply convoy that should have arrived from the rear had never appeared.
And so, to replenish their provisions, Lieutenant General Dalek had dispatched Requisitioning Squads to collect grain from every nearby town and mountain village.
As the old saying went, bandits combed you over, soldiers scraped you clean, and officials shaved you bare.