The first rays of dawn struggled to pierce the thick smoke, illuminating the wreckage of the Blood Wolf Corps' camp.
The air was thick with the foul stench of burning, the metallic tang of blood, and the chill of death.
The once-bustling camp was now a scene of utter devastation, like a skeleton gnawed clean by some giant beast.
Scorched tents were twisted and deformed, reduced to blackened husks. Piles of supplies had been put to the torch, leaving behind only ash and half-burnt embers.
Carl stood on a patch of scorched earth, his heart burning with rage as he gazed upon the hellish scene before him.
When had his Blood Wolf Corps ever suffered such a devastating loss?
He hadn't slept all night. As soon as the flames had died down, he had begun the arduous task of gathering his scattered men.
The bandits who had managed to escape the inferno were like startled birds, scattering in every direction with no will left to fight.
