Shouting rough and vulgar yet full of primitive strength and invigorating battle cries, using perhaps simple but absolutely practical weapons, fiercely tearing into the enemies.
Every successful kill through cooperation was met with heart-stirring shouts echoing across the battlefield.
They had long ceased to be mere cannon fodder, but instead had truly and solidly become an indispensable part of this highly efficient killing machine led by the Night Watchers.
Count Alfred stood silently on the hillside, his fingers clutching the sword hilt turning pale from exertion.
Watching his guards, who usually required strict training to barely maintain formation, now erupting with astonishing combat power and tenacity under the subtle influence of the Night Watchers' magical gifts and the baptism of this brutal war, his heart was overwhelmed with mixed feelings.
Deep pride for his soldiers fighting so valiantly, and an indescribable shock at the near-mighty system of the Night Watchers.
