The September morning mist was like watered-down milk, thick and hard to dissolve.
The aerial roots of the banyan trees hung down, swaying in the fog like strings of gray shadows.
Amidst the chaotic footsteps, Falan clogs and army boots squelched the damp fallen leaves on the ground, squeezing out foul water.
Though the mist was cold, it made breathing difficult and oppressive.
The soldiers couldn't resist rolling up their trouser legs and sleeves, but had to constantly slap at the leeches and mosquitoes.
Riding on the saddle, Gael's pale hair was tied up, and his riding whip tapped idly against the boot barrel.
He looked at the snaking line of troops ahead, not feeling too anxious—after all, they were still far from the battlefield.
The Holy Alliance Army, no matter how fast they marched, had to put on armor, and this road was particularly hard to traverse.
With their few legs, they were likely still shuffling in the valley ten miles away.
