The air smelled strongly of blood and burnt earth. Cries of pain filled the battered hill, mixing with the sharp sounds of clashing steel and the loud boom of magic blasts. Smoke rose above piles of dead bodies—both halfling and human.
At the center of the battlefield stood Kenjirou.
His divine sword rested casually on his shoulder, its blade covered in red blood. He was breathing heavily, sweat mixing with the blood on his face. Yet, his smile hadn't changed at all.
"Damn these weaklings," he grumbled, sounding more annoyed than scared. "There are too many of them…!"
Around him lay over a hundred fallen halfling soldiers, their small bodies torn and burned beyond recognition. Still, more of them kept coming from the forests and hills—determined, organized, and relentless.