By this point, the war statistics presented a deeply ironic figure: the number of Fire Giants who had died through sacrifice had far exceeded the number killed by the Golden Alliance Army on the battlefield.
Rather than falling to enemy blades, more of them had died at the hands of their own people.
What meaning did their faith, growing ever more fanatical with fear, hold for their god?
The once-vast Fire Giant settlements now stood almost entirely deserted.
The surviving giants were scattered sparsely across Flame Peak. What connection was there between the bleak reality of their shattered homes and dying race and their blind faith?
Horace stood on an icy cliff overlooking the front line, gazing at the distant cauldron that still billowed thick smoke and firelight, a complicated feeling rising within him.
He spoke softly to Rellana beside him, his voice impossible to distinguish between reflection and a sigh:
"In the end, what brought them close to extinction wasn't the Golden Dynasty's army... but themselves. The powerful rarely decline because of foreign enemies. Nothing in this world is more tragic than bringing about your own destruction."
The giants had chosen to resist an external threat through self-sacrifice, but that was no different from cutting off their own flesh to feed a hawk or surrendering land to appease an invader. It would only hasten their race's twilight.
The outcome of this war was already decided. The Golden Dynasty would win, and they would be able to go home soon.
Yet Horace was not in good spirits.
War had no right or wrong, only victory and defeat.
Given his current position, this campaign against the Fire Giants was undoubtedly "just": eliminating the threat of the Erdtree being burned, punishing the giants who had attacked the frontier inhabitants, and expanding civilization's