The neatly lined chariots still stood against the city wall, but when the warriors climbed aboard and shook the reins to drive the horses, the seats collapsed as soon as the hooves moved. The chariots tilted left or right before crashing to the ground with a series of thunderous cracks.
"What's going on?!" someone shouted, demanding an explanation.
When they looked at the dismantled wheels, they discovered to their horror that every chariot, both behind them and before them, was in the same state. A section was missing from every axle, deliberately removed by someone.
"Damn it!" Several men cursed, then leaped back onto their horses and raced toward the south gate.
"What?!"
When the men delivered the news to Swinburne, who was taking a brief rest on a wooden stool, his face turned iron-gray. He abruptly stood, leaned against the city wall, and gazed toward the conspicuous firelight on the distant, moonlit land.
He said nothing. He could not even muster an angry complaint or curse.
Viewed from this angle, he looked like a stone statue frozen in place. His face had stiffened, revealing no emotion. An exceedingly rare calm settled over it, making his features look cold and distant. At that moment, he no longer possessed the pure killing intent he had shown before. He seemed to have aged more than a decade in an instant. His breathing, previously inaudible, had grown so labored that the men beside him, and even warriors three meters away, could hear it.
"Hah..." He let out a faint breath, like the stale sigh of an old man dying in bed.
"It's over..." His voice drifted into the men's ears.
"Leader, what are you saying? What's over?"
He turned to look at the man, his gaze earnest as he spoke words they could