There's no doubt that the Empire's bloody tactics have intensified the conflict.
The repression with iron and fire has not extinguished the seeds of rebellion; instead, it's like pouring water into boiling oil, igniting even fiercer anger in the vast desert heartland.
For the chiefs of the Desert Kingdom attempting to resist the Empire, brutal and bloody slaughtering, even the annihilation of an entire tribe, is not enough to instill fear or cause them to retreat.
When the hooves of the Empire's cavalry trample their temples worshiped for generations, when Valken's army nails their kin to the dunes with spears, these warriors, whose blood carries the nomadic spirit, have long transformed fear into deeply ingrained hatred.
They wipe the blood-stained scimitars with coarse sand, swearing under the starlit sky—either the Empire's flag turns into shreds in the sandstorm, or the spirits of the entire tribe will nourish this desert.
For Perfikot, this was merely anticipated.
