Wandering across the battlefields of Heroic Spirit Land, Russell carried a Burning Sword and spent a full ten years observing war.
The cataclysm that cracked the earth did not quell the hatred between the orc tribes. If anything, it made it even more hysterical.
Wars large and small broke out almost every day, with entire orc tribes wiped out.
Origin Power gradually dried up, and the magic that had filled heaven and earth ran dry. Heroic spirits could no longer be summoned, so the orcs fought with their powerful bodies, staging the most primitive and naked slaughter of blades, spears, swords, and clubs.
Russell occasionally played certain roles as well, helping an orc tribe turn the tide of battle or staging a march of revenge.
Through such leverage, he tried to interfere with the entire battlefield.
But in the end, the march of war did not halt because of the roles he played. It still rolled forward like a wheel, crushing everything in its path.
"This is the grand tide of the age."
Holding the Burning Sword upside down, Russell sat cross-legged atop a stone amid the ruins of a battlefield. Orc corpses littered the ground as wild dogs and jackals frantically fought over them. Flies filled the sky, while vultures circled endlessly overhead.
Ready at any moment to join this gluttonous feast.
Wind emanated from Russell's body, blowing away the foul stench and allowing him to continue contemplating his own questions without being disturbed by his surroundings.
"Master the sword, wage war, and ultimately fall into silence..."
No one knew how much time passed. Day and night cycled again and again, while the jackals, vultures, and flies nearly cleaned the battlefield bare.
Yet not a single creature noticed Russell sitting cross-legged on the stone.
When the corpses on the