Landlord in the Arctic

Those few words were like a stone cast into a still pond, causing a thousand ripples.

The other Inuit chiefs all nodded, speaking over each other in agreement.

"That's right. This is the Far North Tundra, a spiritual land that belongs to the Inuit."

"You Indians are in the south. The Crown Territory has nothing to do with you."

"You drove us Inuit here all those years ago. Don't tell me you're trying to drive us out again now. Not a chance!"

"Right! Or we'll use blood to decide who the Crown Territory belongs to."

Chief Welta raised his hands again, signaling for everyone to be quiet.

As the commotion gradually subsided,

the Elder Chief's lips curled into a mocking smile, his playful gaze sweeping over the Inuit chiefs.

"Just because you say so? Did you get Feng's approval? Do you have any idea what the Wild Bull Tribe sacrificed to make the Crown Territory a Holy Land for the Alaska Indians?"

The rapid-fire questions landed like a series of heavy hammer blows.

The previously incensed Inuit chiefs were suddenly rendered speechless, like deflated balloons.

They exchanged glances, a flicker of panic in their eyes as they realized this was far more complicated than they had imagined.

In terms of reservation area, the Far North Tundra Tribal Alliance combined was certainly much larger than the Wild Bull Tribe.

But when it came to financial power, all the allied tribes put together didn't even come close.

Hearing the Elder Chief's words, everyone understood that the Wild Bull Tribe must have paid a tremendous price.

"What did the Wild Bull Tribe pay? I refuse to believe that all of our tribes combined can't afford it," Chief Pete of the Point Laya Tribe demanded, his face a mask of defiance.

Ever since the whales returned, and with the addition of Polar Bear tourism, the number of tourists visiting the tribe had increased significantly.

Besides, most of the tribe's members worked for oil companies, so they were relatively well-off.

They were certainly wealthier than the other tribes.

So, in his mind,

even if the Wild Bull Tribe had paid a steep price, it wasn't something their combined tribes couldn't handle.

The other Inuit chiefs chimed in.

"That's right! I don't have money, but I have a granddaughter. She's eighteen this year. She can marry Feng."

"Fuck, why didn't I think of that? I have four daughters! How about we marry them all to Feng?"

"Spirits above, Anthony! You promised to marry your daughter to my son! Feng only needs one daughter."

Hmph!

The Elder Chief let out a cold snort, a sound that seemed to emanate from deep within his sinuses, full of contempt.

His gaze was like a cold, Sharp Blade, sweeping across the faces of the Inuit chiefs one by one.

Then, he slowly raised two fingers.

He spoke deliberately, his voice low and forceful.

"Daughters? Granddaughters? The Wild Bull Tribe has no need for them. Cut the cheap tricks!"

"I promised Feng a payment of 20 million US Dollars. Every year. For as long as the Crown Territory exists, so does our agreement."

HISS!

The Elder Chief had barely finished speaking when a collective gasp swept through the room, like a sudden, cold wind.

Everyone sucked in a sharp breath, stunned by the astonishing figure.

The Inuit chiefs' eyes went wide, their faces etched with disbelief.

They stared intently at Chief Welta, their expressions full of shock.

20 million US Dollars.

To them, it was an astronomical sum.

'Are the Indians that rich?'

In their experience, the Inuit were still struggling just to survive.

They fought for basic necessities and to withstand the harsh natural environment.

And yet the Indians could put up such a huge sum of money so easily.

This filled the Inuit chiefs with a sense of bitter unfairness.

'If the Crown Territory were anywhere else, it wouldn't matter.'

'The Indians could do whatever they pleased, and it would be none of our business.'

'But the Crown Territory had to be right here, in the Far North Tundra, on Inuit land.'

'If it becomes a Holy Land for the Indians, what would become of the Inuit's pride?'

'The other Indigenous People would laugh us to death.'

'Our ancestors, who exiled themselves for the sake of the tribe, would probably not rest peacefully in their graves.'

'They might just row their way back to the world of the living and slap us in the face with their paddles. SMACK! SMACK!'

'Scolding their descendants for their incompetence.'

"20 million US Dollars... We can afford that, too," Chief Pete blustered, still unconvinced.

His voice was loud, but it clearly lacked conviction.

His gaze fell anxiously upon the other chiefs, his eyes full of hope that they would support him.

...to challenge the Indians for the rights to the Holy Land.

But alas.

Everywhere he looked,

the Inuit chiefs were like frostbitten moss, lowering their heads in sullen frustration.

Louise of the Kivalina Tribe, in particular, didn't even dare to lift her head.

Her own tribe was on the verge of being swallowed by the sea and was currently facing an existential crisis.

Never mind 20 million US Dollars;

even 2 million US Dollars would be enough to relocate her tribe to a safe place.

But right now, they couldn't even come up with that much.

'How could they even talk about competing with the Indians?'

SIGH!

Pete let out a heavy sigh, his tone filled with helplessness and disappointment.

He shook his head slightly, a sense of powerlessness in his eyes.

'It's not that I'm not trying.'

'They just don't have the will to fight.'

Then, as if all the life had been drained from him, his shoulders slumped.

He silently took a step back, his face a mask of dejection and disappointment.

Elder Chief Welta impassively observed everyone's reactions.

Now, seeing Pete give up the fight, his lips curled slightly upward.

The frustration he'd felt from the earlier confrontation instantly evaporated, replaced by a triumphant expression.

He clasped his hands behind his back and puffed out his chest slightly.

He savored the fleeting moment of psychological superiority.

However, the satisfaction didn't last long.

Like a fleeting firework, it was gone in an instant, and his calm composure returned.