The sun rose unusually late over Votradnoi that day, as though even it was reluctant to witness the bloody fighting on the West City Wall.
By the time the first rays finally pierced the heavy clouds and fell upon the ravaged land, everything had quietly changed.
The streets beneath the West City Wall were a scene of carnage. Broken weapons, shattered armor, mangled corpses, and the mingled stench of blood and burning all bore silent witness to the madness of the previous night.
The Holy War Army's corpses lay piled like mountains. Most had been farmers, craftsmen, vagrants... Ragged clothes, gaunt faces-fear, despair, madness, and bewilderment were the expressions they had worn as they died.
Their blood seeped into the cracks between the wall's stones, stained the entire staircase red, and even flowed into the streets below, turning them into dark red mire.
Alanka stood at the foot of the wall's stairs. Like the fifty-odd surviving members of the Holy War Army beside the wall, he could neither climb up nor leave. NPC soldiers and Players had hemmed them in, leaving them nowhere to go.
After more than two hours of fighting, the high priest's white robes had long since been stained gray with blood and dust. The faint glow of his scepter had also faded as the last of his Divine Arts ran dry.
Looking at the numb faces behind him and to either side, Alanka, whose face was covered in stone-like cracks, felt grief and guilt gnaw savagely at his heart like venomous snakes.
These fifty-odd people were all that remained of the sincere believers who had answered his call, gathering from across Votradnoi to fight for the Earth Mother Goddess. Now, only fifty-odd remained...
Only then did Alanka suddenly realize something: from the very beginning, he had