The sand in this desert had been forced to change color several times.
From the black and red of the abyss's corruption, to the yellow and green of the Hayes' death bombs, and now to the blue-purple stain of Hayes blood.
The desert had become a canvas, a painting board of earth, it was painted with blood and bone.
Across this battlefield, demon legions that arrived late tore through Hayes troops with ease. And their heavy weapons, which were once feared, were ripped apart like children's toys.
And the word "torn" was no metaphor. Bodies and machines alike were ripped apart in the most literal sense.
Gideon stood upon that stained ground, clutching a Hayes soldier who still clung to life, and laughed.
The soldier had been brave, brave enough to drive a knife into one of Gideon's countless eyes after watching dozens of comrades torn to shreds. But bravery had no meaning here.
His body now dangled in Gideon's grasp like a rag soaked in rot.
"Oh?… you cost me an eye,"
