The summer evening breeze brushed across the scorched earth, still warm, with trenches marking the nameless hillside like ugly scars.
Here lies the frontline of the Ten Thousand Ridges Mountain Range, a nameless hill that just changed hands.
The First Mountain Corps was stationed in this mountainous area, with the banner of the Laine Camp planted in the rubble not far from the tent, beside several charred Ratmen corpses.
Inside the tent.
Sir Dickbin sat on a toppled ammunition box, using a nearly burned-out half candle to write in a grimy notebook.
His fingers were coarse, the nail crevices filled with stubborn black dirt and blood stains, showing no trace of being a nobleman's hand.
Yet he harbored no resentment towards Edward, who sent him here.
If he hadn't personally walked into that cave and seen the Ryan people trapped in cages, treated like livestock, he might have remained an ignorant and arrogant fool, spouting foolish words that would draw laughter and tears.
