Chapter 42: Hand Gone
In another continent, far from the lands where the Holy Kingdom stood, there existed a place where the air itself felt heavier, where the ground was cracked by countless battles, and where towering structures made of bone and stone rose like monuments to strength and conquest.
Inside one of those structures, deep within a vast chamber lit by flickering flames, a group of figures stood gathered around a massive table carved from a single slab of black rock.
At the center of that table lay a detailed map.
Not just a simple drawing, but a living projection, its surface filled with moving images, flowing mana, and faint illusions that displayed events occurring far away in real time.
Tiny figures clashed across miniature landscapes, beasts roared, and entire regions pulsed with energy as if the map itself was alive.
Standing before it was a massive man clad in tribal clothing, his upper body bare, revealing a physique that looked as though it had been forged through countless battles. Scars crisscrossed his skin, each one telling a story of survival. His presence alone was enough to make the air grow tense.
He was the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe.
Also known among others as the Anti Magi Tribe.
The strongest among their kind.
His eyes remained fixed on the map, watching as a red skinned figure sent monstrous beasts flying as though they weighed nothing.
Without looking away, he spoke.
"What is the result?"
His voice was deep and steady, carrying authority that did not need to be proven.
Beside him stood an old man dressed in layers of worn robes, his body slightly hunched, yet his eyes shone with an eerie clarity. He held a staff adorned with bones and crystals, faint traces of mana circling around it like restless spirits.
The Shaman.
He bowed his head slightly before answering.
"Warchief, due to the lack of mana in that region, the strongest individuals among the natives only reach the Peak Nascent Mana Soul realm, and even that is rare. Most of them remain far below that level."
The Warchief remained silent.
The Shaman continued.
"As for the environment, it is stable enough to sustain conflict but not too overwhelming. The creatures that inhabit that land are strong enough to pose a challenge, yet not strong enough to overwhelm our younger generation entirely."
He paused briefly, then added.
"They are perfect."
The Warchief slowly lifted his gaze.
Around the table stood several other figures, each one radiating an aura no less imposing than his own. They were leaders of other tribes, their presence alone enough to dominate entire regions.
His eyes moved from one to another.
Buzzon Tribe, known for their thunderous power.
Teumora Tribe, masters of earth and destruction.
Fleur Tribe, wielders of blazing flames.
Wozver Tribe, swift and sharp like the wind itself.
The Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe gave a slight nod.
"You have my thanks," he said. "This gift... is not something easily found."
His voice carried sincerity, though it remained firm.
"You cannot imagine how difficult it has become to locate a land suitable for the younger generation. Most continents have long been consumed by power beyond their reach. The beasts there are too strong. The lands themselves reject weakness. Sending them there would only result in meaningless deaths."
His gaze returned to the map.
"But this place... this small island... it is different."
He leaned forward slightly, watching as Borzoi crushed another beast.
"It is contained. It is controlled. It is balanced between danger and survival."
The other Warchiefs began to laugh.
One of them stepped forward, his body crackling faintly with lightning.
"Of course it is," he said. "Did you think we would offer anything less?"
Another spoke, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.
"The younger generation needs a place where they can grow. A place where they can face danger without being completely overwhelmed. If they are always protected, they will never become strong."
A third added, flames flickering faintly around his shoulders.
"And if they die, then they were never worthy to begin with."
The laughter grew louder.
The Bersuka Warchief nodded slowly.
"That is true."
Then his expression changed slightly.
A faint frown appeared.
"But are they not too weak?"
The others fell silent for a moment.
He gestured toward the map.
"These natives... these humans that are so weak versions of us... they are barely capable of resisting. Their strength is lacking. Their resolve is untested. Where is the thrill in crushing something that cannot fight back?"
His voice carried a hint of dissatisfaction.
"A training ground without danger becomes nothing more than a slaughterhouse. And slaughter without challenge is boring."
One of the other Warchiefs chuckled.
"You worry too much."
He stepped closer, placing a hand on the edge of the table.
"We have already accounted for that."
The Bersuka Warchief glanced at him.
The man continued.
"We used our treasures to disturb the balance of that island. The beasts there are no longer stable. They are growing restless. Their instincts have been pushed beyond their limits."
Another Warchief added.
"They will grow stronger as time passes. Faster than usual. More aggressive. More violent."
"And if your younger generation fails to deal with them," a third said with a grin, "then those same beasts will surpass them and become a threat even to them."
The Bersuka Warchief’s eyes lit up.
A low laugh escaped his lips.
"Good."
He leaned back, crossing his arms.
"That is what I want."
His gaze returned to the map, focusing on a single figure.
Borzoi.
The young warrior moved across the battlefield with overwhelming force, his fists sending creatures flying in all directions, his presence alone enough to dominate everything around him.
The Warchief smiled faintly.
"I know that child."
One of the others raised an eyebrow.
"Oh?"
The Bersuka Warchief nodded.
"He is in the early third stage of the Mana Core Formation realm. Among our younger generation, that is considered decent."
He paused, watching as Borzoi crushed another beast with a single strike.
"But his true strength lies elsewhere."
His voice grew more serious.
"He has endured trials that would break most warriors. He has fought creatures far stronger than himself and survived. He has trained under conditions that would drive others to madness. His body has been tempered repeatedly, his spirit hardened through constant battle."
Images flashed briefly across the map.
Borzoi fighting against a pack of massive beasts alone.
Borzoi standing against a storm, refusing to move.
Borzoi bleeding, yet still standing.
"He does not fear pain," the Warchief continued. "He does not fear death. And most importantly... he does not hesitate."
The other Warchiefs watched in silence.
"So he is that strong?" one of them asked.
The Bersuka Warchief laughed.
"Strong?"
He shook his head.
"No."
His smile widened slightly.
"He is not the strongest among them."
The others looked at him with interest.
"Compared to the true monsters of the younger generation... his strength can only be considered average."
There was no mockery in his tone.
Only a simple statement.
"That is why this place is perfect for him."
He gestured toward the map again.
"Let him grow. Let him struggle. Let him face resistance."
The others nodded.
Their attention remained on the moving images.
Borzoi moved again, leaving behind a trail of fallen beasts as he advanced.
Then the scene changed.
He arrived at another settlement.
Another group of humans.
Once again, he spoke.
Once again, he challenged them.
The Warchief watched quietly.
"This child..." he muttered. "He wastes too much time."
His brow furrowed slightly.
"He should focus on eliminating threats, not playing with these weaklings."
Just as he said that...
Something happened.
The Warchief’s eyes widened.
On the map, Borzoi moved.
Then...
A shadow flash.
His arm...
Separated.
The hand fell.
For a brief moment, the chamber fell into complete silence.