The earth beneath was still moist from the rain, and the silhouette of Mount Motte loomed faintly in the blood mist—it was the land they were meant to guard.
He recalled those stubborn Holy Alliance soldiers, rooted firmly into the ground like a trellis, unmoving.
"I don't understand," Eyliff murmured, his voice hoarse yet resolute.
"What don't you understand?"
"We've escaped so many times, fleeing farther each time..." Eyliff raised his head, as if all the pent-up frustration and fury within him erupted, "When will we stop running?!"
The soldiers glanced at each other, someone whispered, "But the Flesh Titans are terrifying, staying means certain death!"
"Better to die than to live like a stray dog!" Eyliff turned sharply, a fire burning in his eyes like never before, "I don't want to be a wanderer in my own home; the Falan don't want to be deserters any longer, to be looked down upon!
We've run so many times, lost so many times, I'm done running, I'm done!
