The boons of modern medicine were yet to reach the Steppe, where herbal remedies and spiritual healing had retained a certain popularity. The nomadic ways of Beastkin tribes made long rests difficult, exacerbating the dangers of illnesses and injuries. In the wake of that horrible battle, the summit had been transformed from a gathering of tribes into a desperate coalition of healers and mourners. With more corpses than injured, and many more who would not survive the night, there were scarce few spots where the sounds of moaning and crying couldn't be heard.
Like freakish ruins, the bodies of those Demons continued to linger in the distance, and though none of them could muster the strength to live again, the undying souls continued to thrash around in their prisons of flesh, eager to resurrect more frenzied than ever before. The opportunity would not arrive for years yet, but the fact remained that they had not been killed. From the far west, where few dared to gaze and precisely zero dared to walk, the silhouettes of two people could be seen descending a hill which obscured the horizon.
"The attack has been successfully repelled. However, the presence of so many Demons in a single area is worrying. It is not possible that such a large group could have remained hidden for 500 years." Fusala reported, "The most rational conclusion, therefore, would be to suggest that these Demons have only recently appeared. This also raises several other, more worrying questions, such as whether or not the Demon King is responsible."
"That isn't possible." Barion answered, "You met him yourself."
"This is true." She lowered her head, "Then… I do not know why this is the case, regretfully."
The shadow of that monolithic tower stretched far beyond the plain of Ip, to horizons unknown. From where the two of them stood, the image of those quivering, Demonic corpses and the wailing camp at the tower's base appeared like the vision of some mad artist.
"10 of them broke through?" He muttered, "Only smaller ones, too."
"When the battle began, I retreated to the 7-Coloured Sphere's pocket dimension in order to synthesise a number of anti-matter bombs. Unfortunately, it seems I was not fast enough to secure a true victory."
"The fact that there was a victory at all is impressive." He replied, "Even if the Demons aren't dead, it'll be a while before they get up again. The summit will have more than enough time to disband once everyone's been treated."
"Do you have an idea of where these Demons may have originated from?"
Reaching into his bag of holding, Barion retrieved the Demon-Detecting Stone, frowning as its crimson glow and unearthly warmth continued to throb in his hand.
"A Crucible. There isn't any other way." He answered, "Like you said, it's more than likely that these Demons were recently created. I get the feeling that the Stone was leading us to a Crucible all along. It's not just a single Demon, but an entire army of them."
"Then, where is our next objective located?"
"Somewhere else. Towards the west, maybe…" He muttered, "For now, let's make sure the summit understands the threat they're dealing with."
"I assume that most of the Shep remained in the camp when the battle began." Fusala guessed, "Therefore, the leadership of the Beastkin has not been compromised, but a number of tribes have no doubt been eradicated completely, while others number in the single-digits."
"Let's be on our way, then."
"Barion." Fusala stopped in her tracks, "Are you well?"
Halting and turning his head, he paused, "..What do you mean?"
"I am not completely invulnerable to rhetoric." She replied, "I believe you know what I mean."
"I'm okay. Tired, maybe."
"I had imagined you would be pleased with this outcome. Were it not for your efforts, the entire summit would have most certainly been overrun." She blinked, "And… I am concerned about your mental state following…"
"This isn't the first time it's happened."
"I do not doubt that." She replied tersely, "But, I imagine time has not made it simpler to cope with."
The man whom Fusala had seen standing atop that mountain of flesh was unrecognisable at first. It wouldn't have been an exaggeration to claim that he resembled something closer to a beast than a human being. Mixing with the godless stench of gristle was an aura which exuded a hatred unlike anything else. When she slid down from the hilltop basin and the two of them locked eyes, what stirred within Barion's soul was an exclusive grief, or sadness--utterly disconnected from the condition of his humanity which returned only moments later. Yes, even Fusala, whose understanding of happiness was like that of a newborn's, could detect the exhaustion in those aged eyes.
"...You're right." He answered, "To tell the truth, I'm barely holding myself together."
"Would you like to talk about it?"
"Not really."
"If I may be so forward…" She began, "The two of us made a promise not to hide our feelings from one-another."
"There are too many important things to worry about." Lowering his head, Barion continued walking, "I'll talk about it… when it's all over."
With the resignation of a man who had spoken those words many times in the past, Fusala didn't call out to him again on their way back to the summit camp. Stricken with more wounded than they could tend to with healers, many of its spare tents had been converted into wards packed to bursting with mutilated, traumatised or otherwise incapacitated Beastkin. Dried bloodstains and tracks of muddied viscera could be seen plainly among the open areas where hurried men and women crossed to deliver vital medical supplies.
"Fusala." After seeing the situation for himself, Barion spoke up, "Could I trouble you to help these people out? An alchemist's medicine would be a lot more effective than the clotting herbs they're bound to be using up right now."
"Of course. I will see to it that those in critical condition will have smooth recoveries." She paused, "And, that those who are beyond saving will have painless ends."
Melting into the ground, her shadowy form dived headfirst into a tent from which agonised screams freely erupted. Anyone lucky enough to receive Fusala's treatments would no doubt be in capable hands, but as she forebodingly stated, there were no doubt plenty of Beastkin who had long passed the point of no return.
"...Hah." Closing his eyes for a moment, Barion winced at the pain running through his joints, "I'd better find somewhere to rest…"
There was very little he remembered of that battle As always, his mindlessness had granted the level of ferocity and brutality necessary for facing Demons, but all that remained of his vigour was focused entirely on finding a quiet place to pass out. Clenching his fist as the discoloured, misaligned shapes of his knuckles echoed with a dull aching, he pulled himself towards the calmer outer perimeter of the summit, finding himself among the same complex of tents he and Fusala had followed far across the Steppe. The wagon, as always, remained steadfast and unbroken despite the chaos around it. Thoughts of the summit's food shortage plagued his mind as he ducked into a spare tent.
"...Huh." He was brought to the barest edge of surprise, "Is that…"
Amidst a crusted pool of coagulated blood forming on the soil, within that tent was unmistakably Pale--though entirely how much of her was difficult to say. Resting upon a rug of boarskin, her chest rose and fell in steady breaths, a serene expression upon her face despite the circumstances. Only, the scene in front of Barion was anything but serene. With a single arm by her side, what little remained of Pale's waist appeared as if it had melted away, both legs unaccounted for. Her normally striking-white hair was caked with mud and dust, and no trace remained of either her bow or her spear.
Barion wasn't one to pity another, and although she remained unaware of his presence, he kept a dignified expression while turning tail to exit the tent, stopping upon hearing a husky voice calling out to him.
"Barion…"
Turning his head, he regretfully met eyes with the rabbit-girl, "Pale."
"Hah…" A joyless smile appeared on her face, "Come to laugh at a fallen warrior?"
"You're alive." He said with some measure of disbelief.
"Alive…" Her single hand twitched, "...Am I, really?"
Truthfully, he didn't want to answer that question. It would be a poor joke to suggest that Pale had any chance of returning to her previous life after the events of that day. He knew better than any human the utter disgrace a Beastkin would feel becoming unable to move. Was she someone who would find strength regardless of that? Or could there be no such thing? Her words carried a confident nonchalance, but the expectant look in her eyes hid a desperation that threatened to consume her entirely.
"...Magical prosthetics are quite common nowadays." He replied, "And, Fusala is a talented alchemist. I'm sure she would brew you a potion of regeneration if you asked her to. This isn't going to be the rest of your life."
"I suppose so." Breaking eye contact, she paused, "Where were you? During that attack?"
"I'm no fighter, so I was here." He answered, "You should get some rest. Those stitches are going to open up if you move around too much."
"...Don't lie to me." Her nose twitched, "You reek of blood. Worse than I do. Worse than anyone who survived that battle does. You were somewhere else. You were fighting another battle."
"Pale-"
"Who are you, really?" She demanded, "Fusala told me… that the two of you were searching for a Demon. You aren't a trader. Anyone can tell that at a glance."
"Go back to sleep, Pale." Barion turned towards the tent's entrance.
"More of them are coming." Struggling, her breathing quickened, "-That's the truth, isn't it? And you're going to stop them. You said Fusala can help me, didn't you? Stay here for a few days longer. I'll follow you, and I'll convince every Beastkin who won't suffer this tragedy to-"
"No." He refused, "You'll just slow me down. I'll deal with this problem myself."
"B-Barion…!" Pale shouted after him as he left, "Tell me where you're going!"
For the good of himself, and the betterment of those around him, a loneliness which had last crept up on him 500 years ago forced a sigh from deep within Barion's being. Seeing a look of glory-starved fury upon Pale's face through the thin gap in the tent's opening, he met her gaze a final time.
"Towards the next fight." He answered, "Naturally."