Your lungs burn with every breath you take. Your muscles ache from the exertion of the battle that had lasted only scant few minutes by your measure. Your head swims and a sharp pain courses through your body as you inspect your arm.

It is broken, the mace had sailed true, and you were unable to interpose your own blade in between it. You are a sailor for damn’s sake, not a soldier. You are <span class="mu-i">Ammiraglio</span> (admiral) Vincenso Grato, and you were sent onto this supposed “supply isle” to take what you can and burn what you cannot.

And what a disaster it is. The battle line had completely collapsed after the Akeonian chevaliers smashed into you without stop. The damned bastards cut through your sailors like a scythe cuts through wheat.

Even now, they are screaming out in pain as the battle rages.

Looking around, despite the fact that your head is swimming, you can see as your halberdiers, the elite of Tarrizo charge to give battle. The heavy weighted halberds landing with a loud thud, as one halberdier manages to catch an Akeonian chevalier overextended after his killing blow upon one of your sailors. With a wet thump and screeching of armour, the steel helmet is smashed inwards, as viscera, blood, and brain matter is ejected from the cracks in the armour and the eyeholes.