The Unyeilding pushed across the bridge with Alfred at the back. The Commonwealth had a small defence prepared for them as their supply line retreated from the bombardment. The camp had finally agreed to push across. The Unyeilding struck with callous efficiency. Each thrust of their spear, each step, each breath—all were in sync, leaving no opening for the Commonwealth defenders to strike effectively.
Desperate attacks were thrown out, each blocked by the shield wall that slowly inched forward. It was as if the Commonwealth didn't exist as they walked forward, trampling over the dead bodies. Alfred had a small smile on his face as he followed behind. 'The perfect soldier.' Civilisation throughout history has claimed to have the perfect soldier, the perfect warriors. But looking at his Unyeilding, he couldn't help but take immense pride in them.
