The prisoners were bound in the center of this fiery enclosure. Even if they managed to loosen their bonds and escape, they would never make it past the flames. The realization of their captivity had broken their will, and they sat with heads bowed, utterly dejected.
Michael glanced at Marcus and Miaomiao, who were huddled together in sleep. Their peaceful forms brought a small smile to his face.
As the night deepened, the rain intensified. The downpour washed away much of the lingering scent of blood, cleansing the air. Michael ordered his soldiers to maintain a watch rotation and tend the fires. Fatigue was no excuse to lower their guard.
Taking the lead, Michael volunteered for the first watch. The soldiers protested.
"Captain, there's no need for this. You've worked harder than anyone. Please rest," one said.
But Michael shook his head firmly.
"Everyone is tired. As your leader, I must set an example for you to follow," he replied.
Reluctantly, the soldiers acquiesced. Michael sat near a fire, listening to the crackle of flames and the patter of rain. The sounds blended into the quiet serenity of the plain, and his thoughts wandered to the state of the front lines.
Eventually, his watch ended, and the next soldier approached.
"Captain, it's my turn now. Please, get some rest," the soldier said.
Michael handed over the fire poker and rose.
"Keep a close eye on things, and report any disturbances immediately," he instructed before lying down.
Though the ground was hard and the air cold, his exhaustion quickly pulled him into a deep sleep.
Early the next morning...
Michael awoke to the chill of morning rain on his face. He splashed the cold water over his cheeks, letting it wash away the last vestiges of sleep and fatigue. Nearby, the soldier on watch yawned as he poked the dying embers of a campfire.
The once-blazing fire had dwindled to faint warmth, barely holding on. Stretching out his stiff limbs, Michael approached Marcus, who was still dozing.
"Marcus, I need your help," Michael said.
Marcus blinked awake, yawning widely before looking at Michael.
"What is it? Why so early?"
Michael's gaze drifted to the battlefield, now quiet but still bearing the scars of the fierce fight.
"Can you dig a large pit over there? Find a boulder to place over it when you're done."
Marcus tilted his head in confusion.
"Why bother with that? Can't this wait? I could use more sleep," he grumbled.
Michael placed a hand on Marcus's crimson-scaled flank and spoke softly.
"We need to bury the fallen Rock Bear warriors. In exchange, you can keep whatever treasures we find on their bodies."
Marcus's eyes lit up at the mention of treasure. Nothing motivated him more. Stretching his wings, he rose quickly, stomping the ground as he cleared the fiery barrier to create a path.
The task didn't take long. The rain-soaked earth was soft, yielding easily to Marcus's claws. As he worked, Michael roused his troops. The commotion also woke the prisoners, who huddled together nervously, watching the activity with wary eyes.
Once the pit was dug, Marcus rolled a large boulder to its edge. Michael directed his soldiers to move the stripped bodies of the fallen Rock Bear warriors into the grave. All usable equipment had already been removed.
When the last body was laid to rest, they covered the pit with earth and placed the boulder atop it. The prisoners observed the burial from a distance, their expressions a mix of resignation, sorrow, and faint relief. Some closed their eyes and muttered prayers, paying quiet respects to the dead.
Addressing the prisoners, Michael spoke with authority.
"Those who fall in battle deserve respect as warriors. I've given them that respect. As prisoners, I expect you to do the same by following us without resistance. Understood?"
Karato hesitated, but eventually nodded. The other prisoners, subdued and somber, bowed their heads in agreement.
Leaving the now-docile captives, Michael turned to the tent housing the wounded. Inside, the bodies of their fallen comrades lay respectfully prepared. Michael wiped the blood from each with care, placing them in leather pouches sprinkled with preservatives. Though it wasn't a perfect method, it would suffice to keep the bodies intact for a few days.
As Michael completed the solemn task of preparing the fallen comrades for preservation, a quiet crowd of soldiers gathered around him. None spoke, their eyes fixed on their captain. Michael raised his head to meet their somber gazes, his expression heavy with the weight of loss.
In a low, steady voice, he began a prayer:
"To those who rest here, rejoice with all your heart. Death is a sanctuary, a promised holiness. Do not mourn its end; your vengeance will be mine to bear. If not me, who else shall stain their hands with blood? Peace comes through vengeance, and death brings rest."
When Michael's prayer ended, all those present closed their eyes in silent tribute. Tears mingled with the rain as they streamed down the soldiers' faces. For this moment, all thoughts of victory and survival were set aside; it was time to honor their fallen comrades.
"The Special Task Force achieved a brilliant victory during this campaign," Count Charles announced, his voice resonating through the chamber. "They annihilated nearly 10,000 enemies, captured 200 warriors from the Rock Bear Tribe—one of the Five Great Tribes—and formed contracts with 105 direwolves. Let's not forget the food supplies they seized, which otherwise would have gone to the enemy."
Excitement and pride filled Charles's voice, and the room mirrored his sentiment. The news of Michael and the Special Task Force's return to the fortress with such spoils had electrified the kingdom. Soldiers cheered as the bound warriors of the Rock Bear Tribe were paraded into the city. Cries of praise for Michael and his troops echoed endlessly.
The previously somber atmosphere, burdened by the news of the Pamir Empire's Five Great Tribes joining the war, was suddenly transformed. Riding the wave of this victory, Charles pressed on.