Sovereign of the Karmic System - Chapter 675: A Never-Ending Conflict

Somewhere within the ring’s space was an enormous plain. An expanse of dirt and blades of glass now covered with rusted armors, chipped swords and pikes and spears, and the lifeless bodies of different types of creatures. Despite the number of corpses, however, no bird bothered to linger in the air in hope of catching a morsel of food, nor was there any wind whistling through the holes of the discarded pieces of equipment. Just a never ending silence that extended for thousands of miles from one end of the plain to the other, before finally meeting its end at its two ends, where two enormous camps had been set up.

Large columns of smoke rose from both camps, yet their nature was different, just like that of those who occupied them.

The first camp had been set at the feet of a mountain range, comprising tens of thousands of tents of different manufacture. Some were made of red silk, soft to the touch despite the large symbol of Sacrifice’s domain that had been embroidered in gold over each empty surface. Some others were made of simple white cloth, presenting the symbol of war under splattered mud stains, likely sent over it by the patrols as they walked by, while the rest were made of what appeared to be leather tanned by skins of various nature. Animal furs or barks were the minority of the last type of tents, while the rest was what, based on the occasional holes and strange shapes of the leather, many could recognize as human skins. Most of the last type of tents were blotched with black, lucid paint-the characteristic inconsistent symbol of Horror’s domain.

Just like the symbols presented on these tents suggested, the warriors that occupied this camp were members of the domains of Sacrifice, War and Horror, and yet, they appeared to any form of gift, for despite showing the nature of the domain they belonged to, they lacked their any of the domain’s gifts, making them sort of champions in training. The members of each domain kept to their own kind as well as to their domain’s portion of the camp, which was divided by three. The portion occupied by the red tents being the smallest, the one occupied by identical white tents being slightly bigger, and the tents made of odd materials being the largest by a large margin.

The camp was surrounded by a wall of wooden pikes, on which severed human heads had been impaled facing in the direction of the battlefield. From within the barricade rose large columns of smoke, each produced by enormous bonfires each fueled by the burning corpses of dozens of humans and beasts. Beyond the smoke, bonfires and bloody barricades, warriors in white armor accompanied by cultivators in red robes and monstrous creatures, orderly marched towards the entrance of the camp.

On the other side of the battlefield, located right above a large cliff facing the ocean, was the second camp.

While just as big as the first one, a single look at this camp would assure one of its occupant’ completely different nature. No heads were hanging from the tip of spears or spikes, for the camp lacked any form of fortification to begin with. A useless measure the other camp had employed not to increase the protection to their camp, but to have something with which they could display the corpses of their opponent’s dead comrades.

Several columns of fire rose from this camp as well, but none of them released the same scent of burnt flesh, for its fuel was common pieces of wood and dried leaves. Pots of bubbling broth could occasionally be seen hanging over the fire, along with whole eggs and rare pieces of meat.

The tents of this camp were larger but clearly not made for military use, as they were used to house not only fighters, but also the members of their families, the old, and those who were too young to fight, giving the collection of tents the appearance of a refugee camp more than a military camp one usually see at the edge of a battlefield. Inhabited by mostly human mortals, this camp also possessed members of the beast kind and elementals, who appeared to move around between the tents freely, each unbothered by the presence of the other two kinds.

In the middle of this camp was a particularly large tent, or more specifically a building, made out of a wooden skeleton and walls of grayish pelts. Heavily armored guards stood quietly around it and beside each pillar. Their eyes attentively seeking for strangers more than for intruders, showing that the yells that came from within were not exactly a secret, unless one did not belong to the camp to begin with.

This tent was occupied by a large number of individuals, each dressed in attire comfortable enough to fight in, and carrying weapons of different shapes and kinds. Age or race did not appear to be a major requirement for others to take part in the meeting that was taking place, for one could see teenagers, elderly people, as well as elemental and beastly humanoids standing side by side with men and women of a more common military age.

One thing most participants had in common, however, was a look of worry.

“I have to insist, Sir.” Said a man in his mid-forties. A muscular individual dressed in tattered cultivator clothes under a layer of leather armor. “No matter how many waves we defeat, the enemy always manages to refill their numbers, at least enough to match our own. If we keep going like this, by the time we kill the last of them, nothing will be left of us as well.”

This man’s plea was directed at a second man. An even larger middle-aged man with short grizzled hair and large scars that ran down the side of his face, who, strangely enough, carried no weapons behind his back or on his waist. His muscular figure was bent over a large table, over which lay a map of the plain filled with the locations of the enemy camp, its current size, and the places the two armies had met within the battlefield marked in red circles.

Despite the immense size of the battlefield, the map was almost completely covered in the latter type of marks, counting the number of previous battles in the high thousands. Each a painful reminder.

“Don’t you think that I know?” The scarred man asked calmly as his fingers traced a path in between two particularly big red circles. One he had been told had granted him more success than most others in the last few years. “We tried to surrender the fifth year after their invasion. Sent ten diplomats to discuss their casus belli, then welcomed their heads back with their eyelids, ears, noses and lips missing. Ten years later we tried again. Do you remember? That time they gave us the courtesy of giving the rest of the corpses back.. or what was left of them after the months of torture.”

His eyes never moved from the map, and yet, the more he talked, the angrier he became. The finger he had been using to trace over the map had now pierced through it, carving into the table like a knife would a slab of cooked meat.

“Calm down.” Said an old woman with long and dry white hair. Her wrinkly expression curved into a sorry yet kind smile as she placed her weak left hand onto the scarred man’s broad left shoulder. “Nobody blames you for what happened, Lig.”

The man nodded in response to the woman’s reassurance, then turned to look back at the other man. “They have made it abundantly clear, at this point, that they will accept no surrender.”

“But we have a tenth of the fighters we had during the first invasion. If this keeps going, who is going to be left to protect-” The man said before being suddenly interrupted by a ray of light which pierced through the entrance of the tent, and illuminated its interior in a brighter, more natural light.

Those present immediately turned to look towards the entrance of the tent, and standing there, they found the large figure of a man with long black hair, reptilian green eyes, and horns of onyx protruding from the sides of his forehead. His body was wrapped in a wide robe he was still busy tying around his waist to cover his toned, naked figure.

“Are they-” The host of the meeting, the scarred man, muttered in a question he never got to finish asking.

“They are marching again.” Said the horned man while pulling the ends of a now tied rope. “I tried to rain some fire onto their encampment as soon as they moved out, but their spiritualists were expecting me., as always.” As the man spoke, a green light flickered past his large tongue, as if produced by the bubbling of a green pool of lava located down his throat.

The head of the scarred man dropped down, hanging from his shoulders. “Is our army ready to fight again?” he asked.

To answer him was not one of the many humans within the tent, but a humanoid elemental of metal essence. His body was smooth, and made of the most durable alloys in existence, and yet his movements were fluid, as if having just been taken out of a furnace. “We are. We will march at your order.” He said with an oddly melodic screech. A series of notes played out in rapid succession to create words comprehensible to human ears.

The scarred man sighed deeply, then lifted his head, scouring past the large figure of the horned man where a small patch of the battlefield lay visible under the horizon. “We march at Dawn.” He ordered.

The old woman rose to her feet with odd vigor and pointed her bony fingers to her right. Her attentive eyes landed onto one of the warriors as she said, “Send word to the commanders. They should be busy with their cultivation at this time.” As soon as the order was given, the man she had spoken to darted past the horned man and disappeared from their sight. Her finger then moved onto another member, as she continued, “Send our scouts ahead. Have them verify which path they are taking, and give us a report of what kind of traps we have left there.” Her finger moved again, “You-”

As the old lady continued with her neverending series of orders, the scarred man walked to the entrance of the tent. The leather armor he was wearing was unfit for the battle ahead, and he needed to change. Before stepping out, however, a large scaly hand landed onto his shoulder. “Little one,” Said the horned man. “Get yourself back together before going out. You don’t want them to see you in this sorry state.”

The scarred man did not take offense, and instead let out a tired laugh. “I would feel better right away if you took my position, your highness.” He said with a hint of sarcasm.

Humored by the man’s newfound spirit, the horned man let go of his shoulders. He then fixed the loose robe he was wearing while retorting with a hint of pride, “I am a scholar, not a general.”

“That you are.” Responded the scarred man before stepping out of the tent. Before getting out of ear shot, he added in little more than a whisper, “And I was a gambler.”

The horned man let out a loud laugh which caused green colored flames and black smoke to flare out of his nostrils. He turned to look at the back of the scarred man, then said in amusement, “Never a good one, as I recall.”