There was nothing new on the Blood War battlefield. A gale reeking of blood and rot swept over the cracked, blood-colored wasteland, while serrated stone mountains flickered in and out of sight beneath swarms of winged demons. For endless ages past, a depressing blood-red setting sun had bathed the entire layer in scorching heat and blinding light.
Whenever dark clouds occasionally spread over the plain, it meant the Demon Army was marching in force to press upon Barto Hell.
Though demons were generally heat-resistant, prolonged exposure beneath that blood-red sun still hastened the loss of moisture from their bodies. This might not be fatal to demons with the tenacity of cockroaches, but it did intensify their craving for food and water.
Naturally, there was no water to replenish themselves with on the Blood War battlefield, nor should anyone expect the Demon Army to possess anything resembling competent logistical management. When some demons could no longer endure it, their hungry, thirsty gazes would inevitably drift toward the Brothers beside them, who were equally tormented by hunger and thirst.
Once those fervent gazes sparked against one another, it often marked the beginning of a bloody brawl.
Only after the starving demons rose from the mangled corpses of their companions, their mouths dripping with blood, would they continue onward toward Barto Hell under the compulsion of the Abyssal Will and their thirst for slaughter.
It was as though some voice in the unseen was guiding them:
At the end of the Blood War battlefield lay everything they desired.
For countless millennia, it had always been so.
Oh, though perhaps things had changed greatly for certain Blood War mercenaries willing to risk their lives for profit.
If one divided things by the timeline, then ever since Bael had taken the stage and assumed power,