The myriad scholar strategist took the lead. He whipped the disorganized myriads into proper formation. Every fiber of their being beat in unison to the sounds of battle. The blood and sweat as they toiled soaked the scarlet ground, overshadowed by the dark, windy morning sky.
Overhead, the sun peeked over the battle, waiting for the right time to rise and exalt over the entire earth, with its bright illumination of all glorious things. The clock was ticking. Once the sun shone over them, the ghouls would be weakened to their normal state, unlike at night where they were powered by the powers that be.
Until then, they just had to hold, and then perhaps hope might finally arrive for them, so that a chance would bloom over the battlefield.
The scholar glanced to his side. With each look, anxiety grew, which was only offset by proper breathing technique, ensuring that the mind had enough oxygen to process all variables that were transpiring around them.
