The morning sun cast long shadows across the battlefield, illuminating the carnage that had become Morax's constant companion.
Blood soaked the earth beneath his feet, mixing with the dust and debris of another victory that felt more like defeat.
He stood motionless among the fallen, his amber eyes surveying the aftermath of divine wrath unleashed upon divine wrath.
The enemy god's body lay crumpled against a shattered mountainside, another rival eliminated in this endless war that consumed everything it touched.
Morax's golden spear dissolved into motes of geo energy, returning to the earth from whence it came.
Around him, his surviving followers tended to their wounded with the practiced efficiency of those who had seen too much death.
Their faces bore the same weariness that he felt deep in his immortal bones, the kind of exhaustion that sleep could never cure.
"Lord Morax," called one of his lieutenants, a mortal man whose hair had gone gray in service to his cause.
The man approached carefully, as they all did now, recognizing the weight of divine displeasure that seemed to hang around their lord like storm clouds.
"The casualty reports, my lord."
Morax accepted the stone tablet without looking at the numbers carved into its surface.
He already knew the cost would be too high, as it always was.
Three hundred mortal soldiers lost, another seventy wounded beyond the point of returning to active service.
Among the adepti, Cloud Retainer bore injuries that would take decades to fully heal, and Mountain Shaper's ancient form showed new cracks that spoke of battles fought beyond the limits of endurance.
"Have the bodies prepared for the funeral pyres," Morax commanded, his voice carrying the authority of stone itself.
"Ensure that every family receives proper compensation, and see that the wounded are given the finest care our healers can provide."
The lieutenant nodded and hurried away, leaving Morax alone with his thoughts and the weight of responsibility that pressed down upon him like the very mountains he commanded.
He walked through the battlefield, noting the craters where his geo constructs had struck enemy forces, the crystalline formations that marked where he had raised barriers to protect his people.
Each mark told a story of desperation, of choices made in the heat of battle that would haunt him in the quiet moments between wars.
The Archon War had raged for so long that Morax could barely remember a time when the very air did not taste of smoke and sorrow.
Gods fell like autumn leaves, their domains scattered to the winds or claimed by the victorious.
He had claimed many such territories himself, not out of ambition but out of necessity, because leaving them unclaimed meant chaos for the mortals who depended on divine protection.
His territory stretched across vast swaths of what would one day be called Liyue, from the towering peaks of Mount Hulao to the fertile valleys where his people grew their crops and raised their children.
Each mile of land represented thousands of lives under his protection, mortals who looked to him for safety in a world gone mad with divine conflict.
The responsibility threatened to crush him some days, when the reports of attacks on outlying settlements came in faster than he could respond to them.
How many gods remained in this war?
The question haunted him as he made his way back toward his temporary encampment, a collection of sturdy tents and hastily constructed fortifications that had become more familiar to him than any palace.
Dozens still fought for dominance, their powers shaking the very foundations of Teyvat with each clash.
Some, like the god of salt who had chosen a path of pacifism, tried to find alternatives to the endless violence.
Others, like Osial whose rage knew no bounds, seemed to live for the destruction itself.
Morax had tried to maintain neutrality in the early days of the war, believing that his people could find safety through defensive measures and careful diplomacy.
That naive hope had died with the first village burned by a rival god who saw weakness in mercy.
Now he fought not for conquest but for survival, knowing that every enemy he eliminated was one less threat to the mortals who had placed their faith in his protection.
The weight of their trust settled around his shoulders like a mantle made of stone, beautiful and terrible in its permanence.
He paused at the edge of camp, looking back at the battlefield one final time.
Tomorrow there would be another fight, another god seeking to claim his territory or eliminate a rival.
The cycle would continue until only seven remained, until the war consumed everything except the strongest and most ruthless.
But tonight, his people would sleep safely behind walls of geo energy and beneath the watchful eyes of his adepti.
Tonight, that would have to be enough.