The King Of Warriors novel (Jared Chance) novel Chapter 6345

By dusk, the Skywolf Tribe's camp was empty.

The evening light spread like blood, staining the Wastelands a dark red.

Wind swept in from the distance.

It lifted ash and dust off the ground and spun them through the air like countless silent sighs.

The tents were gone.

All that remained was bare ground and wooden stakes driven deep into the dirt.

The wooden barricades had been shoved down and lay scattered every which way across the ground.

Some had already been burned into charcoal. Some still carried thin trails of smoke.

The ground was littered with dried blood. Some of it had gone black. Some of it still held a dark red stain. Patch after patch spread across the earth like scars cut into the land itself.

The air reeked of char and blood, and the smell refused to leave.

Hadrian stood in the heart of the camp and looked over the place where he had lived for thousands of years.

He stood there a long time without saying a word.

His left arm was still hanging in a sling around his neck.

The wound in his chest still throbbed now and then, but his back remained straight.

His father had recovered here.

The old man who had lain unconscious for 300 years, and had only just been saved by Jared, was now being carried at the very front of the line on a stretcher by several young beast-race warriors.

His son had grown up here.

That young warrior had gone to the Ancient Battlefield for the first time and never came back. His body lay buried on the hillside behind the camp, facing the Wastelands, facing the land he had guarded all his life.

His warriors had trained here.

Every morning, the clash of war axes and the roar of battle cries carried across the entire Wastelands.

His clansmen had laughed here.

Children had chased one another between the tents. Women had sung beside the bonfires. Old men had sat at the tent entrance, telling those ancient stories.

Now it was all over.

The celestials had not destroyed it.

They had abandoned it with their own hands.

"Let's go," Jared said as he walked to Hadrian's side, his voice low. "We'll come back."

His green robe stirred lightly in the evening wind.

The Dragonslayer Sword at his waist caught the last light of the setting sun and gave off a faint gleam.

There was nothing on Hadrian's face.

But in his eyes, something still wouldn't stay down. If not for him, the Skywolf Tribe would never have crossed the Tribunal. They would not have been forced to give up their homeland. So many people would not have died.

Hadrian turned and looked at him.

He stayed quiet for a moment.

Then he smiled.

It was a faint smile, but there was nothing false in it. "You're right. We'll come back." He reached out and patted Jared on the shoulder. "Don't carry too much of this. The Skywolf Tribe never looks back with regret."

He turned and strode toward the moving line.

In the fading light, his back looked a little bent, but every step he took was steady.

Behind him, the beast-race warriors stretched out in a long line.

They carried packs on their backs, supported the wounded as they walked, and headed toward the Wandering Cultivators Alliance.

No one spoke.

Only footsteps and the creak of wheels echoed through the dusk.

Some turned back for one last look at the camp, and everything in their eyes stayed there. Some kept their heads down and stared at the road underfoot, not daring to lift them. Some bit down on their lips and held the tears in.

But none of them stopped walking.

Lydia led the Ghost Clan warriors at the very front of the procession.

Her face was calm.

But there was still a trace in her eyes that wouldn't stay hidden.

Her left shoulder was still wrapped in bandages.

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