Eleanor couldn't believe she had survived a day on the battlefield, especially since so many feeble and frail like her, who had been pushed to the front lines, fell mysteriously beside her. Their charge was as disorganized as poorly mixed batter—old beggars who had promised to watch over her had been lost in the chaos of battle.
Truth be told, no one really wanted to charge. A so-called aura of bravery can make you bold, but there's a fine line between bravery and foolishness. Even the bravest soul could harbor doubts when facing certain defeat.
To keep those doubts at bay, the officers had conveniently placed a small squad behind them to enforce discipline—two slippery youths who had tried to escape were swiftly relieved of their heads. Hence, everyone else, tangled in this forced camaraderie, surged forward only to fall like wheat to the scythe.
In this world, without the tale of Sun's disabled, nobody knew about Tian's horse racing strategy. So, the unwritten rule was to attack your equals first, as long as your own troops weren't completely overwhelmed.
That's why the elites, who could slice through iron like it was butter, turned a blind eye to the carnage here—they were too busy fending off the mages on the city walls.
After a day of brutal fighting, nightfall saw both sides retracing their steps and burning the dead. The acrid scent of charred flesh filled the camp, killing anyone’s appetite for meat—not that there was meat to be had.
Back to Eleanor, now waking once more to the smell of seared flesh and the piercing sound of the assembly whistle.
It was time for the second charge of the day.
Eleanor helped up the person next to her in the trench, about to remind them to gather, when she realized the stranger had long stopped breathing. Noticing the less-notched knife in the person's hand, she pried it away from their stiff grip.
The remaining troops were a sad collection, less than half of the morning's number, bolstered by a fresh batch of soldiers from seemingly nowhere. About two thousand in total, that was the entire force for this charge.
Even the commander didn't understand the purpose behind this futile assault. Capturing one or two trenches wouldn’t give them any real advantage when the enemy could swiftly counter with superior firepower. The only rationale he could conjure was that the top brass wanted to use these expendable lives to deplete the enemy mages’ stock of casting materials.
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Word had it that rebel mages, according to an analysis of captured weapons, had pre-loaded magic into their ammunition, so anyone, talent or no, could use the new magical weapons with ease.
Such unfairness, he thought. But war has never been about fairness. With a dismissed sigh, he ordered the charge. Even from deep within the ranks, Eleanor could glimpse the commander’s eyes through a gap, filled with pity, knowing what was to come.
Then, the enforcement squad's swords were drawn, and the ragtag unit turned about, marching into hell’s embrace.
Eleanor stuck close behind a shield-bearing figure, tall but as lanky as a sapling, who stooped low, shielding the girl behind him as they pressed on.
From this close, she could see the heads poking out from the opposing trenches, held off from attacking for the sake of accuracy at this last stretch.
Eleanor’s heart was in her throat, eyes fixed ahead, ready to dodge the approaching projectiles.
A hissing noise above caught her attention. Looking up, she saw a massive vortex of ice and water disintegrating the fireballs that rained from behind. As the two elements clashed, the fireballs dwindled, soon smothered by billowing steam.
They were dueling with magic again... But the thought barely had time to form when a series of ominous thuds rang out.
Without a moment's hesitation, Eleanor ducked, wishing she could bury herself in the earth. But before she could move, the person in front suddenly toppled backward onto her.
She extended her arms to catch him, yet he was shockingly light. However light, Eleanor couldn't hoist him back up and only managed to lay him gently back down.
A bullet had passed through his right lung. The man tried to turn on his side, curling up in agony, each cough splattering blood more profusely than the last; another bullet, having struck the shield, ricocheted up, smacking his chin, robbing him of speech, leaving only a guttural wheeze.
The man's hoarse coughing grew worse, peaking before quieting to a whimper, his vitality fading along with the sounds of bloodied breaths.
In his final moments, he handed his shield to the unfamiliar little girl beside him, then lay still, gaze lost to the distant sky.
Eleanor took his shield, pulling it close and catching sight of the advancing enforcers from the corner of her eye. Trapped between the horror of unknown magical weapons and the cold steel that threatened her own, she clenched her jaw, grabbed the barely shorter shield, and pressed forward.
In the sky, endless fireballs hurled from the rear, the once-dominant vortex of water now subdued, a whirlwind struggling to dissipate the remaining threats.
A fireball, its might mostly undone by the twister, broke free and plummeted, exploding beside the unguarded girl.
"Boom!"
Despite being reinforced with metal edges, the wooden shield shattered. Eleanor tumbled like a leaf in a gale, flung to the side.
Most of its power lost, the remnant blast was still lethal for the girl.
Pain, ringing ears, her mind a blank slate.
Crashing to the ground like a discarded rag, her vision momentarily blurred—visions of her life spiraled in her memory.