Baal crouched inside the burrow. It was deep and dark, dug out with his claws.
He lay in the dirt, covered in too many wounds to count. Four of his six horns had broken, more than half his teeth were gone, his left eye was blind, and his right eye was blurry.
He lay on the ground, gasping for breath.
He did not want to fight anymore. His body was still trembling. Instinct told him that the glowing birdmen were not all dead yet, and he could not stop.
But he did not want to move. His body felt as though it had been filled with lead, and every bone ached. He buried his face in the soil. The dirt was cool and damp, carrying a faint bloody smell.
As he smelled it, he remembered a very, very long time ago.
Back when he had still been a Lesser Demon, he had also lain in dirt like this, waiting for his mother to return. But she never came back.
Both worlds fell silent.
It was not peace, but deathly stillness.
Neither angels nor demons had the strength to keep fighting. They curled up amid their own ruins, licking their wounds and waiting for the other side to die first.
The war had entered its final stage. This was a war of attrition, a contest of will. Whoever failed to hold on first would lose.
Wu Heng sat atop a rock, watching it all.
The power of war continued to pour endlessly from the rift, and he had absorbed nearly enough.
The war power stored in his body was already sufficient, but what he wanted was not merely "enough for a while." He wanted complete control over the War Trait.
Not something that diminished with every use, but an inexhaustible source.