Chương 55: Legacy's End

The clouds gathered like an ancient mourning veil drawn across the heavens, heavy and dark, swallowing the golden light in a slow, deliberate eclipse. What little warmth remained bled away, as if the Orbis Terrarum itself grieved the senseless bloodshed below. The surviving warriors of both tribes lowered their weapons. The chaotic clash that had painted the shrublands red ground to a halt as every eye turned toward the two Kabīrs.

Bural stood tall but weary, supporting Kirgula, who cradled the decapitated head of his son. The old chieftain moved as though the weight of mountains pressed upon his shoulders. One single tear escaped his eye silent, private. He angled his body so none but the closest could witness it tracing down his weathered cheek before vanishing into his beard. A father's agony, hidden even in active ruin. His gaze then shifted to his youngest son, who staggered out from the shrubs, body battered and trembling with pain.

Kirgula's voice cracked like dry thunder as he ordered his people to withdraw, loading their dead onto the cavamellos. Before they departed, he pulled Bural aside and arranged a meeting in three days, time enough for both sides to tend their wounds and bury their grudges. Kirgula asked for the sword. Bural handed it over, and the old man wrapped it reverently in a cloth of deepest black. In return, he offered a two-fingered gesture of gratitude, tight and solemn.

Bural's forces gathered their fallen including the mercenaries who had died fighting for coin and began the somber trek back to camp. The lost souls would not be forgotten for its the least that can be done. As the Legacy sword changed hands, Kirgula also received his son's legacy armor, stripped from the corpse and carefully bundled in stark white cloth. The other tribe did the same, claiming their own dead with heavy silence and then exchanging the Legacy back to the originals owners hands. We three...

Erumes, Galerius, and the badly wounded Iskatot helped load the bodies despite our exhaustion being at the peak of breaking after having witnessed all that chaos. My arms burned with strain calling for a break. Galer sweated profusely, his animo clearly depleted. In the end Iskatot bore the worst of it, yet none of us hesitated in this situation of helping clearing the fallen. As outsiders, we showed respect by aiding the grim task. The Kabīrs noticed.

Once the Nabatea departed its columns vanished into the haze, Bural ordered a soldier to escort us back to camp.

"Explain yourselves there," he said flatly and himself being exhausted. The return was quiet, broken only by the creak of carts and the distant cries of grief as families reunited with their dead. In the heart of the camp, the Kabīr emerged from his tent carrying smooth white linen, the kafan, cloth meant to carry souls into the next world for a ritual passing. Soldiers dug shallow pits in the sand. The bodies, stripped bare and gently wrapped in the kafan by their loved ones, were lowered with heartbreaking care.

Then, with a forceful push, the sand collapsed inward, swallowing the forms completely. Fine particles drifted upward like whispered farewells, blending the fallen back into the eternal shrublands. It was raw. It was beautiful. Families gathered around each pit, hearts leaden. One by one, they tossed scraps of their own clothing into the sand a final message, a quiet vow that the dead would never walk alone. The wind carried the grains away, scattering them across the wilds. I watched, silent.

Every corner of the Orbis Terrarum handled death differently, yet the pain remained universal. Traditions like these kept the living tethered to the lost and feel still connected with the passing ones. When the ceremony ended, the grieving families lingered by the pits, still offering those final pieces of cloth. Only then did the soldiers turn on us. Surrounded by spears and hard glares, we were marched more like dragged into the Kabīr's tent under heavy intimidation.

The air inside was thick with incense, blood, and unspoken judgment. Bural sat upon a woven mat, eyes sharp despite the exhaustion carving lines deeper into his face. He studied us for a long moment, the weight of recent betrayal and battle hanging between us.

"Outsiders," he finally rumbled in out tone.

"You fought. You helped carry our dead. Yet you stand alive while good warriors feed the sand." His gaze flicked to my healing torso, then to Galer's battered state and Iskatot's wounds on his arms.

"Speak. And do not waste my time with pretty lies. The sand forgets nothing." So, with that in mind, we told him the plain and simple truth of my planned escape and our misfortune in meeting the Nabatea in the holy temple. Bural listened without interruption, his weathered face unreadable. When we finished, he leaned forward, the firelight carving deep shadows across his features.

"I am thankful," he said at last, voice low and rough.

"The surviving guards and i saw you did helping carry our dead when you owed us nothing for it... That earns respect, even from outsiders like you who were wait in the sand, but without you accidently getting there the damage could been much worse." He paused, eyes narrowing.

"But I have one question. Who are you truly… and why were you truly at the temple site was it really an misfortune... you see no outsider or in our tone as you know gharib should have prior knowledge of it so please tell me the whole story this time." I told him everything from my life in the mines of Rhertia, the fall of my home, the loss of my arm, the burning need that drove me forward. Galerius followed with his own tale: the warrior's path, the partnership forged in blood and fire in Plew.

We spoke of Jeruem, the distant plateau that might hold answers about the Nibelungen and the origins of their true power. To prove our words, I slipped the ring from my finger and held it out. Bural's eyes widened the moment he saw it. He took the ring with careful fingers, turning it slowly. The inscriptions caught the firelight, ancient and glowing with faint inner fire.

"These markings…" he murmured. He set the ring on the low table between us, then reached into the deep white cloth beside him. From it he drew the legacy armor the very one whom was acting out on killing us all and laid it beside the ring. The same script ran across its surface, elegant and alien.

"What is this?" he demanded, voice tight.

"Tell me." I recounted what Herzog Isopetalom had revealed in Aegyptus: the legends of the Nibelungen what the Herzog witnessed, fragments of an ancient epic tale scattered across the Orbis Terrarum. I left out the personal pain, the revenge that fueled my every step the goal of mine. Bural listened, stunned.

"All my life I have walked these badlands," he said quietly.

"Closer to Jeruem than most will ever come… and I have never heard this name. Nibelungen." He shook his head, the weight of new knowledge settling on him like sand after a storm.

"How vast the world truly is." Iskatot remained perfectly still and calm throughout, the picture of disciplined calm. His experience with interrogations showed nothing rattled him. I asked about the cloth. Bural's gaze grew distant.

"It was kept in similar wrappings before the temple fell. We place such relics in new ones when the old are ruined. The tradition is simple: guard the memory, never use the power. Zaphari sacrificed everything so our tribes could survive the old darkness between other foes and keep unity. We honor that by never becoming defenseless again. That is why we marched to war when we sensed weakness. But my people…" His voice cracked for the first time.

"they sought to just keep our traditions alive of Kabīr and the son of Kirgula's greed instead taking the true trials. Look what his greed cost us." He met my eyes.

"Do you want the ring back?" The white-stone ring sat on the table like a living ember. I felt its pull like destiny, obsession, the dark red fire from my Heart that had burned in me since childhood. My hands shot forward almost on its own. I cradled it tenderly, fingers tracing the inscriptions as if they were veins of flame. My dark red hair fell forward; my eyes reflected that inner blaze. The others in the tent shifted uncomfortably. Even they could sense it...

I was teetering on the edge of something obsessive, almost unhinged. Galerius and Iskatot placed steady hands on my shoulders. Their grips grounded me, pulling me back from the precipice. I exhaled shakily.

"The cloth to wrap this ring. I want to keep it. A reminder of what I gained in Aegus and now here… on what I sacrificed." I glanced down at my charcoal-skinned arms. The cream the healers had applied was little more than a visual trick; the real healing still burned beneath the surface, slow and painful. Bural studied me for a long moment, then nodded. He folded the white cloth and handed it over. I slipped the ring inside and tucked the bundle safely into my left pocket. The old Kabīr sat straighter.

"Cease the guard activities on them," he ordered. Four soldiers bolted from the tent at once.

"You may stay if you wish," he added.

"But I sense you will not." I shook my head.

"Three days from now you meet the other side, the Nabatea and i hope you can find a happy solution like Zaphari intended... but It could break into a fresh war. We've already brought enough trouble as it is." Bural tapped the back of his neck lightly with his cane, a weary gesture.

"You, outsider speak truth. We stand at a heavy crossroads. All the mercenaries at the outpost are gone. Debts must be paid. A son of Kirgula is lost. And now I know the nature of your attribute." He smiled faintly.

"We Kabīrs do not usually fight on the front. We direct from behind, like a stick drawing lines in the sand, guiding every motion. That will change now. Our lives will never be the same." For the first time i realized he called us outsiders, not Gharīb.

"I wish I could help," I said honestly.

"Your people… your traditions, the way you move through this land, there is beauty here that needs to be kept alive. A simple strength worth protecting." Bural's grin widened at the compliment, but it faded as I raised my hands in a pained gesture, arms screaming from the whole effort. He tilted his head.

"Ah… yes. Your arms are in a very interesting position."

"Yes, we could use those, as fire and skew some nice meat," I said with a short, tired laugh. The joke landed lightly, but the truth behind it was heavy. I was in no shape to be anyone's reliable strength right now, as it was proven in the recent battle. My arms still burned, the cream doing little more than mask the damage. Galerius and Iskatot were capable, but none of us knew this land well enough to be useful in the coming days. Bural saw it too. He gave a slow nod of understanding.

"Then go with my blessing. I hope you find what you seek in Jeruem."

"And again we hope your people find peace," I replied.

"No more war with the Nabatea. Only solutions." The old Kabīr tapped the back of his neck once more with the cane, a small, weary gesture.

"So do I, young flame-bearer. So do I." We stepped out of the tent into a sea of curious faces with children peering from behind their mothers, warriors watching with guarded respect, elders murmuring among themselves. Whispers followed us like wind through the shrubs. Before the crowd could close in, Dabuzai pushed through, clearing a path with his quiet authority. He walked with us all the way to the carriage, voice thick with emotion.

"I thank you," he said, eyes steady on each of us.

"Not just for protecting my children when the temple fell, but for standing with us when you could have run. You fought for strangers. Outsiders." He shook his head, a faint smile breaking through.

"I see now that not all outsiders are the same. The next time humans like you appear among the Lakjoh… I will be more open-minded." The sun was sinking low, painting the badlands in deep oranges and bruised purples. Clouds continued their slow march across the sky, heavy and restless. We climbed into the carriage, bodies aching, minds full. As the wheels began to turn, we looked back. Salar stood at the edge of the camp, one hand raised in farewell, a tired but genuine smile on his face.

That small gesture carried hope for his people, for an end to the bloodshed, for something better than endless cycles they have been at it for far to long. Yet frustration still gnawed at me. If only my arms were healed… I would have stayed those three days. I would have seen with my own eyes how their situation would have ended. Instead, I turned forward, staring into the gathering dark. The sky above us churned with clouds, mirroring the questions burning brighter than ever in my chest.

Jeruem waited somewhere beyond the horizon with answers, access to power, perhaps even the shadow of Siegfried himself. The carriage rolled on, slow and steady, carrying us deeper into the unknown region forward.