What lies deep inside the Ley Line?
The answer is souls bound in molten rock—forever unable to cross over—twisted spirits that cannot reach the border of life and death, turning into remnants and wraiths… the filth that forms.
Among them, those fallen in war—especially the Archon War and Immortal-God War—are the most numerous. Their filth seeped deep into Liyue's soil.
In other words, what the Ley Line holds most… is soldiers.
Millelith.
Soldiers once under Bosacius' banner.
The deepest, saddest pain of Liyue.
[Remaining life: 8 hours]
Huff…
Bosacius exhaled slowly, head bowed, lips pulling a faint smile.
"Huff… long time no see."
So that's how it is.
What a ridiculous life…
Blood covered him, wounds torn to the bone. Leaning on his longsword to keep standing, he drew one more breath, then raised his head. The cold wind tugged the tatters of his coat, trailing like a dark-gray cloak.
"Greetings," he said.
Legions.
Before Bosacius: legions upon legions.
ghosts and demons.
Two wars—too many dead.
Countless soldiers encircled him, layered like shadows, piled into a mountain of men.
Broken armor carried the heaviest gloom; torn banners, charred by smoke, lay on the ground—"Vritras," "Millelith" now yellowed and dusty. Most blades were snapped, jagged stumps carved with the deepest pain.
Sacred Sakura could have purified them; here there was none. They could have been heroic spirits, yet karma had tainted them. They howled in agony, craving to tear all life before them.
No will remained—only foul hatred in their eyes. Cursed by the corrupted Ley Line, shackled in the abyss forever, they fought an endless war, died an endless death.
"Forgive me."
Bosacius looked at them. Head lowered, he pulled an arrow buried in his flesh. His body trembled; perhaps illusion, but the Marshal's shoulders quivered faintly.
"I am sorry."
Softly spoken, inspecting every soldier's face—
He apologized, bowing the spine he had never bent:
"Forgive me. I was an unworthy Marshal… I did not hear your voices. I am sorry."
But soldiers turned karma heard nothing.
Ten-thousand arrows blotted the view—dark shafts weaving a mist, barreling at him. Before they touched Bosacius, they crumbled to dust.
"Bosacius, are you satisfied with this life?" byHuman Principles System
It always asked at life's end.
"My life was painful," he whispered, "because I had to draw my blade on my own men. To die fighting enemies is honor; my last battle… was against friends—that is no honor."
Dying in battle might be fortune, but fortune had never favored Bosacius.
"You could have given up; then you would not grieve."
"I will not leave. I will not give up."
He raised his head, spine straight. "They were wonderful lads… every one of them. They deserve better."
Dragging the sword, chipped edge sparking on stone, the cold blade reflected his crazed yet composed face—smile of karma at his lips, sorrow and resolve in his eyes:
"I am Marshal Vritras. Their Marshal," he declared. "I led these fine lads to war; so I must lead them out."
"That is my final purpose."
Four hundred thirty-nine thousand five hundred and thirty-one.
The death toll of Millelith in the two wars.
He remembered the number forever; not digits, but eyes—flaming, magnificent eyes that always watched him.
"They died. Their names were forgotten. Their bones rotted in the wild. Their voices buried under rock—no one hears them any more.
"I was the first Millelith. I must remember their names.
"I must hear their voices.
"I must bury their souls.
"If there is a next time—if in the future I become someone's Marshal again—I will set this rule:
"The living must bury the dead.
"The living must remember the dead.
"The living must keep walking."
Legions surrounded him. Bosacius drew the blade—north-wind howled, a lone sword facing thousands!
"This time," he laughed—sorrow, helplessness, yet above all unbridled pride and madness—
"The karma I shall devour, the karma I shall Nuo Fu, the pain and memory I shall inherit—number 439,531."
He opened his arms to his soldiers, to the wandering souls of centuries, to martyrs:
"We have won," he cried.
"We are victorious—the war is over, Liyue is at peace, exactly as you wished.
"Clear skies, safe people.
"You fought the shining battle. I am deeply proud of you."
Bloody head to toe, soul corroded, he laughed loud:
"Soldiers!"
He bellowed:
"Four hundred thirty-nine thousand five hundred thirty-one—none may be missing!
"We shall, together, together—"
He shouted heavy words:
—"Return triumphant!"
Next instant he was engulfed by boundless karma—
or rather… embraced by his troops.
Having decided to descend, they moved.
Climbing the maw's wall, ever deeper, the air grew hotter; heat distortion reddened the flow of air—mere illusion.
Illusion.
All along, Ganyu repeated the word to herself.
"Perhaps false, perhaps true—I choose to believe, because I hope it's true."
Xiao's line echoed in her mind, clinging to her heart.
Hope it's true…?
Her nails pierced her palm. Did she hope Bosacius was innocent?
She refused to answer. Deep inside she knew, yet would not face it—because the answer was ugly.
Never believe only what you wish to believe—Yae Miko's final letter.
Yes, if Bosacius were innocent, then all the endings were wrong—terrifying.
She leaned on the inner voices—accepted them. Only listening to them let her forget the blood that day, the verbena eyes dimming at dusk.
It's fake. Whatever she saw, she would not waver again.
Lower layers reached—but still far to the deepest point.
Red haze covered crimson ground; dead magma steamed. The vault overhead was dark and silent—deathly still.
She believed she would not waver—yet next moment she froze.
"What…?"
The dead magma roared up a sea of fire; drums of war thundered; every tier of the Chasm opened crimson eyes—tens of thousands of soldiers!
Was this, too, illusion? Never had an illusion been so vast, so detailed, so dreadful, so… sorrowful.
Were they living troops? No—more like mad lost souls.
Ganyu's pupils shrank. In that host she saw a figure she never wished to meet.
Walking amid the tide of souls, his battered blade cut armor after armor—clean, decisive, dirty blood spraying over him. A smile twisted, frenzied—like a blood-thirsty god.
Bodies fell, but each slain soldier's face eased, malice fading to peace. Their corpses dissipated; eyes moist, they looked on the lone man in the sea of blood: "…Marshal."
Filth, madness, grimace left their souls—curse exorcised. Freed, they could cross the border and rest.
The dispersing miasma streamed into Bosacius, making him ever fouler—yet he never flinched.
[Remaining life: 6 hours]
One thousand.
Two thousand.
Three thousand…
Slaughter. Salvation.
[Remaining life: 4 hours]
Ten thousand.
Twenty thousand.
Thirty thousand…
Xiao, Ganyu—all present—were stunned by the bloody grandeur; etched forever in their sight. Pure slaughter, yet awe-inspiring, almost holy.
Qingluo Yan knew what it was: Nuo Fu, the first gift he had inherited—past self performing the ritual. "No wonder he died young—crazy fellow!"
"…What is this?" Ganyu's lips were dry.
"I don't know," Xiao rasped, eyes fixed. "I don't know."
"It is slaughter," Ganyu murmured, mist filling golden eyes. "Yes—he is slaughtering…"
"Maybe," Xiao answered, staring into her gaze, "maybe it is what you call slaughter.
"But Bosacius," he clenched his chest, voice quivering, "is slaughtering something else… perhaps slaughter, but also blessing."
Blessing.
Ganyu froze, staring at the lone figure.
Sapientia Lucens, Animus Pacificus.
Animae Vigiles, Manes Intacti.
He chanted the Nuo Fu litany.
Bosacius was exhausted, drenched in blood, arrows bristling from his back. He gasped, tore them out, straightened to walk on.
Lv. 91
He had no idea how many he'd killed, how much karma he'd devoured—tens of thousands? Hundreds? Numbers meant nothing. By rights his last shred of humanity should have vanished; perhaps oblivion would be mercy—no more pain.
Each karma devoured, he tasted its pain—hundreds of thousands of pains. Yet he refused to yield, not until the final moment.
Because—439,531 souls, not one less!
[Remaining life: 1 hour]
How long he fought he knew not. Steps faltered, mind shattered, yet he trudged on.
Fewer crazed souls remained; his foes dwindled. The last was a Yaksha.
He remembered the name: Pervases—his vanguard, raised by his own hand, a hero who died before dawn.
"Pervases," he whispered, "hello."
Though tainted, Pervases did not strike, only waited. Bosacius' shaking blade pierced his chest.
Even made karma, the not-so-strong Yaksha would not raise a blade against Bosacius.
"I'm sorry."
Bosacius could no longer stand, leaning against Pervases' fading form. Cold, trembling, soul almost gone—utterly alone.
"Sorry… last time I couldn't… save you."
After some time—
"Marshal… big brother."
A hug, warm though no flesh: Pervases clasped him, voice choking, "Big brother, you have done enough… you are the best big brother, the best Marshal. Don't blame yourself."
"I'm satisfied… If we could share grilled ticker fish again, that would be perfect."
"Grilled sardines taste better, brat."
"Must eat together."
Pervases' body thinned, still gripping Bosacius' sleeve. "We wandered centuries underground just to see you once more."
Bosacius, the once towering Marshal, muttered, "Stupid kid."
"Please… turn around, big brother—look behind you."
Bosacius, since the first strike, had never looked back. Now he turned—and froze.
Four hundred thirty-nine thousand nine hundred thirty-one souls had not departed. They stood silently behind their Marshal.
The fewer before him, the more behind him—till now:
—His own army.
Tear-filled eyes watched their Marshal, the best Marshal, best brother.
"Millelith second battalion, squad leader Pu 11th, five present."
"Millelith hundred-man commander Liao 8th, reporting…"
Roll-call rang—soft voices lapping like waves, like dragon roars.
Bosacius stared, stunned.
"Vanguard Pervases, present."
Eyes clear with tears.
"Millelith—439,531—all present, and today…"
"…return victorious!"
Their figures dimmed; all bowed deeply, fists clenched at the Marshal.
"While the Millelith stands guard, evil shall never prevail."
Trembling, fading, they cried:
"While the Millelith stands guard, evil shall never prevail!"
Bosacius lowered his gaze—then laughed, louder and freer than ever, all life's bitterness poured out.
If the System asked again, he could answer with pride: "Yes, I am satisfied."
[Remaining life: 15 minuets]
Souls gone, world empty. He lifted his sword and walked to the Chasm's nadir—to dig his own grave.
The spirit soars the mountains high,
while the body rests as the world goes by.
By wave and storm I hunt for fish,
by wind and snow I slay evil.
Before him stretched endless darkness. His laughter echoed through the Chasm, across 2,400 years, ringing in Lumine's ears, in Xiao's ears…
…in Ganyu's ears.
What if life slips by in a breath?
Let thousand warriors find their rest.
Flowers drown in the salted deep,
All things let go, and sins released.
Millelith, 439,531—all troops assembled, returning home victorious.
One yet to return.