No war in the world has ever matched the scale and ferocity of the Blood War. No matter how grand, large, or filled with legendary generals other wars may be, they seem insignificant when placed before the Blood War.
None can compare to the Blood War.
The Blood War is the largest conflict known, with an origin lost to time and an end that cannot be foreseen. Its battles spread throughout the cosmos, even in the alleys of Sigil, where skirmishes unfold on a smaller scale.
The two dominant forces of the Blood War, Hell and the Abyss, have relentlessly conscripted all the power they can muster. Demons and devils have dragged almost every species into their conflict, from minotaurs to elves, from noble gold dragons to malevolent black dragons. From lowly goblins to towering titans, their blood has been spilled in the Blood War. Every conceivable creature has graced its battlefields; you might even see radiant angels wielding their swords amidst the hellscape.
But the Blood War is not without reason. On the surface, it appears to be a mere conflict between two great multiversal powers. Perhaps demons and devils simply detest each other and wish for mutual destruction.
Deeper scrutiny reveals that the Blood War is the direct clash of two fundamental forces of the cosmos: "Order" and "Chaos."
Devils are the emissaries of order, obeying military discipline, hierarchy, strict laws, and societal strata. Their nature compels them to honor every contract.
Demons represent chaos – they are capricious, impulsive, unrestrained, and revere strength above all, with little to no organized structure.
These opposites are inherently incompatible: one side seeks to bring everything into systematic regulation, while the other strives to break all rules and be unbound by any constraints.
This is a primal ideological battle, irreconcilable to its core, ensuring the Blood War rages endlessly. Perhaps only with the destruction of the multiverse, will the Blood War conclude. That's why its influence is so pervasive; the struggle between order and chaos is omnipresent, even within the hearts of mortals.
This is the Blood War: epic and monumental, invoking awe and trembling in all who witness it.
When the devil first laid eyes on Azazel, at that very moment, the newly arrived denizen of Hell was fated to join the Blood War, though he himself was still oblivious.
"Wait, what did you call me?" Azazel asked the approaching devil.
The devil, of average human stature, bore a chest bare of armor, his skin a blood-soaked red, muscles rippling with power. A black iron helmet, adorned with horns, concealed his face, revealing only red eyes that gleamed with malevolence. Around his neck, a necklace of skulls rattled with each step. The mere sight of this devil suggested a fearsome and battle-hardened warrior, not to be trifled with.
The devil approached casually, his long hands resting on the hilt of the massive sword slung across his back. Lifting his head, he spoke with a raspy voice muffled by the helmet: "Are you deaf, or just playing dumb? Eh? I called you 'recruit'! Understand, recruit? Maybe you weren't a soldier before, but as of now, you're one. A greenhorn. Now follow me. If you're lucky, you might even make squad leader soon. Remember, don't even think about running away. You see these skulls around my neck? They belonged to many powerful individuals who feared and faltered, trying to flee from me. Now they adorn my chest as a necklace. Be wise and just follow me!"
As the devil finished speaking, a fireball fell from the sky, exploding upon impact. The blast force poured into Azazel's agape mouth, but he hardly noticed.
This was odd; what was happening?
Azazel glanced up to see nothing but the peculiar red sky above.
How could a fireball have just fallen from nowhere?
"No need to look; it's not an enemy, just my bad luck today," the devil's voice emerged from the smoke of the explosion. His figure reappeared, slightly diminished in size, but Azazel was too bewildered to pay attention to that detail.
The devil approached Azazel and asked, "Poor greenhorn, is this your first time on the first layer of Hell? You don't seem to be a low-ranking devil. That you've never been here is perplexing. Let me tell you, that fireball wasn't an enemy. Sometimes the sky just drops one or two fireballs; whoever it hits is unlucky. This is Hell; you can't expect gentle breezes or blue lakes here. No, only scorched earth and the occasional rain of fire. You'd better get some protective gear against fire or your life here will be tough. Oh, by the way, the name's 'Ganzaleth.' You can call me Ganz. And you, recruit, what's your name?"
"I'm Azazel."
"Well then, greenhorn Azazel, follow me. We need to move quickly."
Azazel hesitated, but ultimately decided to follow Ganz. On one hand, he had no strength to resist; he had just come through a portal from a fierce battle with Skarl and the Dustmen, having exhausted all his energy. Even earlier, he hadn't rested, recalling the morning's cool breeze as he had run through the streets—much to his chagrin, without clothes. Before that, he had been busy in bed with a beauty.
Now, Azazel was spent; he needed not just to resist but to find a place to rest and eat before a good night's sleep. A hot bath and a soft bed wouldn't hurt either.
With such hopeful thoughts, Azazel followed in Ganz's shadow, embarking on a path of war from which there was no return.
After about two hours of walking, they arrived at their destination: the Recruit Camp.
A sea of tents made up this makeshift camp. Judging by the number of tents, it should have been bustling with life, but it was desolate. No one came to greet them, no one stood guard, not even a body in sight. The camp was eerily quiet except for the sound of footsteps on the charred earth.
This wasn't right; the Recruit Camp shouldn't look like this. It was where devils trained their cannon fodder, those unlucky souls abducted from all corners of the multiverse—whether through deception or outright capture. They were brought here for training and then sent to the battlefield.
Generally, the training was straightforward—just enough to understand two commands: "Charge!" and "Hold the line!" It was always bustling with various creatures and noisy with commotion.
But Azazel, a new recruit, wouldn't know this. He found it a little strange, but the prospect of rest (in the form of tents) quelled his curiosity. And any lingering oddness was forgotten the moment he met his squad mates.
After a restful wake-up, the squad assembled for their first drill.
The drill instructor began: "I'm your instructor, Ganzaleth. You call me Ganz. Training used to be strict; recruits endured a year or more of harsh hellish drills, focused solely on discipline, severe and exacting discipline, and how to follow it. But you lot are lucky; there's no time for that now. I'll teach you real combat skills, tactics to survive longer in the Blood War. Yes, I'll even share my secret techniques—no other instructor will teach you these. I'll teach you how to identify enemies and how to run. Don't scoff; it takes skill. We have three days; you must learn."
Abruptly, Ganz stopped speaking, his gaze fixating on the person beside Azazel. He bellowed in anger: "You! Step forward! You seem to have an opinion on my words."
A paladin clad in silver armor stepped forward, tapping his chest with a gauntleted hand, the clang of metal echoing, a knightly salute: "Yes, sir! I do have objections! I am a paladin; I never flee."
"Good, I'll remember you for any rearguard tasks," Ganz replied as he caressed the hilt of his colossal sword. "But if you fight alongside me, there's rarely a need to retreat. I've yet to meet anyone who isn't afraid of my blade."