A coarse fuse extended from the shell of the explosive, converging on the ground behind, forming a unified whole with thorns, blast-proof piles, and fog zones, like a meticulously woven trap waiting for them to enter.
Vance's palms were sweaty; he saw not an enemy array, but an entire defense system built around children.
The bodies of those children were frail, their faces youthful yet gaunt.
Each of their eyes was open, gray-golden pupils appearing unusually murky in the mist.
Occasionally, one would blink, but it was mechanical, like broken gears idling.
In that moment, Vance's teeth made a slight yet piercing sound as they clenched; he was furious to the extreme.
He had seen the most tragic piles of corpses in the snowy fields of the Northern Territory and had personally ordered artillery strikes on enemy formations, causing countless casualties.
But all that happened within the rules of war, while this scene before him wasn't even worthy of being called war.
