The battlefield did not stop. Even after the immediate echo of the Titan horde's annihilation had faded into the hollows of the earth, the air remained heavy, a thick soup of mana residue, pulverized stone, and the sharp, metallic tang of blood.
Sky Crystals were gathered with a chilling, mechanical efficiency, catalogued by Gravenian officers and adventurer quartermasters who worked side-by-side in the flickering torchlight.
Nothing was wasted; no fragment of essence was left to rot. Order had replaced chaos, and that transition alone terrified the Primordial Battlefield more than any Titan ever could.
Aegis stood atop a jagged natural ridge, his silhouette a dark anchor against the orange glow of the army below. Disciplined lines of fires stretched to the horizon, marking a perimeter that felt more like a city than a camp. Supply routes formed almost instinctively, like a living circulatory system feeding the massive beast of the Liberation Cult.
