Shivana had a dream.
She knew very clearly that it was a dream.
Because, in a daze, she had returned to that barren desert.
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The Troll covered in festering sores gnawed on Hellhound flesh. Scalding magma had burned away his tongue, yet it had failed to take that damned life of his.
His tribe had pushed into that tranquil, peaceful oasis, the homeland they had defended.
Amid the slaughter of blood and fire, she heard shrieks, clamor, and wails—the wails of the Rift Roar Tribe.
The blazing flames were about to reduce the oasis to ashes, while she, the loser, could only flee desperately like a lizard with its tail severed.
The fire spread to her ankles. The burning pain made her collapse onto the coarse yellow sand, and even the pebbles mixed within the fine grains cut open her cheeks.
Yet somehow, everything by her ears became quiet.
A broad palm settled on the ends of her hair, warm and familiar.
So she struggled to raise her head, and that aged face came into view, seated beside her.
She felt as though she had returned to childhood, to the high slope of that sand dune, gazing with the old bastard at the oasis that represented their tribe and homeland.
Still as ignorant as she had been back then, she asked, "Those damned bastards want to steal our food. Why leave them alive?"
The old bastard merely shook his head and smiled softly. "Shivana, the reason we kill and plunder has never been some primitive beastly nature, or some curse from the gods.
"It is because we want to live. To live well.
"We pursue strength so we can live better, and indulge our desires so we can live happily.
"But those shortsighted fools will not understand