"Arrows! Have the arrows arrived?! The archery units need to rotate in five more times, and we'll be out of arrow reserves!"
Vizimir was coordinating the flow of supplies and support with the commissaries.
He had spent a sleepless night, and now, in his anxiety, ulcers had begun to form at the corners of his mouth.
His clouded eyes were dull, yet in the face of the urgent situation, he had to force his old and weary body to regain its vigor.
Meanwhile, Veltrest was primarily in charge of the affairs on the frontline.
"How many warlocks are still engaged in combat?"
He looked at the tide of humanity clashing on the distant hill and inquired of a scribe beside him.
The scribe's data was gathered from numerous observers who used monoculars to watch the battlefield.
"Ten warlocks are still fighting, but their mana is visibly depleting."
The rate at which they were reducing the number of fleeing Niflgaardians was also visibly decreasing.
