Chapter 47: Challenge
In another continent far beyond the reach of the Holy Kingdom, the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe stood unmoving before the massive projection that revealed everything happening in the distant northern border.
For a moment, he said nothing.
His broad chest rose slowly.
Then fell.
Then rose again.
And suddenly—
He roared. A roar so loud that the ground beneath him cracked, the stone floor splitting apart as if it could not withstand the weight of his fury, the pillars surrounding the chamber trembling violently as the very air twisted under the pressure of his voice.
"BORZOI!" His voice thundered across the hall like a storm breaking loose, his eyes blazing with rage as he pointed toward the projection where Borzoi stood, now bound by an oath he could never escape.
"You useless brat! You let yourself be tricked like this?!"
His breath came out heavy, each exhale carrying heat, his muscles tightening as veins bulged across his arms, his entire presence turning violent as if he was about to tear the world apart with his bare hands.
"You swore on the totem!" His voice grew even louder.
"You swore on our ancestors!"
His hand slammed against his chest.
"And now you kneel under a human?! A human!"
The word itself sounded like an insult, like something filthy that should never be associated with his tribe.
He staggered a step back.
Then another.
And then—
His voice broke.
"I... I failed..."
The room fell silent.
Even the other Warchiefs turned their heads slightly.
The Bersuka Warchief clenched his fists, his nails digging into his palms as his shoulders trembled, his towering figure looking smaller for the first time as something heavy weighed down on him.
"I failed our ancestors..."
His voice dropped into a rough whisper.
"I failed to protect our blood..."
His head lowered.
"I let one of my clansmen be enslaved again..."
His entire body shook, not from weakness, but from the unbearable pressure of shame, the kind of shame that could not be washed away by battle or blood.
"Again..." He whispered that word like it carried a curse.
Memories flashed through his mind.
Chains.
Whips.
Screams.
The past his tribe had clawed their way out of.
The past they swore would never return.
And now— It was happening again.
He raised his head slowly, his eyes now burning with something even more dangerous than rage.
Hatred.
He looked at Borzoi through the projection.
And he screamed.
"You deserve it!" His voice cracked as it tore through the chamber.
"You deserve to be enslaved!"
His finger pointed forward, shaking.
"You deserve that humiliation!"
"You deserve every bit of it!"
His chest heaved.
"If you are that stupid... if you are that weak... then you deserve to kneel!"
The other Warchiefs remained silent.
The Warchief of the Buzzon Tribe stood with his arms crossed, his massive frame still as a mountain, his thunderous aura flickering faintly around him, yet he said nothing, his silence heavy as if even he had no words for what had happened.
The Warchief of the Teumora Tribe leaned slightly against his seat, his expression calm, almost bored, as if he had seen enough of Bersuka tempers to know that this was nothing unusual, his fingers tapping lightly against the stone as he watched the projection with steady eyes.
The Warchief of the Fleur Tribe did not even look at the Bersuka Warchief.
Her gaze was fixed somewhere else.
On Cerys.
Her eyes narrowed slightly, studying the maid standing behind Clay, her attention sharp, her thoughts deep as she observed something others had yet to fully grasp.
The Warchief of the Wozver Tribe stood quietly as well, his presence light yet dangerous, his gaze also fixed on the same figure, his instincts telling him that something about that maid was not simple.
Back at the battlefield, Borzoi stood in silence for a brief moment after acknowledging his position, his jaw tight, his pride wounded but not broken, his remaining hand clenching as he forced himself to accept what had happened.
Then he spoke.
"What should I do?" His voice was rough. Direct.
Clay did not hesitate.
"You can locate your tribe members, right?"
Borzoi’s eyes widened.
"How did you know that?" His tone carried genuine shock.
"What are you planning?"
Clay blinked.
Then smiled.
"I didn’t know." He shrugged lightly.
"But because of your reaction... now I do."
Borzoi froze.
"You—" For a moment, he had no words.
Clay waved his hand casually.
"Relax." His tone was almost lazy.
"I’m not scheming anything complicated." Then his smile widened.
"I just want to beat all of you at once."
Silence fell again.
Borzoi stared at him.
Then—
He laughed. A deep, loud laugh.
"Hahaha!"
"You?" His grin widened.
"Do you even know what you’re saying?"
His eyes gleamed.
"I am just a junior in my tribe... and even among the juniors, I am not the strongest."
He leaned forward slightly.
"Are you sure you want this?"
Clay’s expression did not change.
"Don’t waste my time."
His voice became flat.
"Gather them." He pointed outward.
"Tell them to come."
Then he added, almost casually.
"I want more slaves."
Borzoi’s laughter stopped.
Cerys, standing just behind Clay, stepped forward slightly and spoke in a calm voice.
"Young master does not want to trouble himself hunting you one by one."
Her eyes glanced at Borzoi.
"He prefers to hunt all of you at once."
The words were simple.
But the meaning behind them struck deep.
Far away, the Bersuka Warchief’s face twisted again.
"You!" He pointed at the projection, his anger returning in full force.
"Filthy insect!"
His voice boomed.
"You dare speak like that?!"
Then suddenly—
He laughed. A harsh, mocking laugh.
"Hahaha! Hahaha!"
"He only won because of tricks!" His eyes burned.
"There is no way he can defeat even Borzoi in a fair fight!"
The Shaman beside him stepped forward slightly.
"Warchief..."
His voice was calm.
"Would you like me to send someone stronger?"
The Bersuka Warchief paused.
His laughter stopped.
His expression turned serious.
"This is the Annual Tribes Hunt..." He muttered.
"If I interfere too much... it might be seen as breaking the rules..."
He clenched his fists.
"But if I let this go..."
His eyes darkened.
"I am no Warchief."
He slowly turned his head.
His gaze moved toward the other Warchiefs.
They did not speak directly.
But their expressions said enough.
A faint smirk.
A small nod.
A look that carried the same thought.
Mortal or not... insignificant or not... he crossed a line.
The Bersuka Warchief exhaled slowly.
Then nodded.
"Do it."
The Shaman bowed slightly.
"Understood."
...
Far from the battlefield, in another part of the same northern land, a man dressed in tribal clothing similar to Borzoi stood surrounded by an army of soldiers, their weapons drawn, their bodies tense as they prepared to strike.
"Attack!"
The command echoed.
Spells lit up.
Blades moved.
The ground trembled as dozens of attacks rushed toward the lone man.
Then—
His skin turned red.
Not slowly.
Not gradually.
But in an instant.
His entire body changed as a violent aura erupted from him, his muscles tightening, his presence becoming overwhelming as if a beast had awakened within him.
He raised his fist.
Then slammed it down.
Boom!
The ground exploded. A massive shockwave spread outward, tearing through the soldiers like a storm, their bodies lifted into the air as if they weighed nothing, their formations shattered in a single moment, their weapons flying out of their hands as they were thrown back violently.
Some crashed into the ground.
Some were sent flying into the distance.
All of them defeated.
The man stood there, unmoving.
Then he sighed.
"If this is all this place has..." His voice was filled with disappointment.
"Then it is not worth my time."
He looked around at the fallen soldiers.
"No worthy opponent."
Suddenly—
A portal opened before him.
A swirling gate of energy, ancient and powerful, its presence bending the space around it.
The man’s eyes narrowed.
Then—
A voice echoed from within. The Shaman’s voice.
"The Warchief has a task for you."
The man stepped forward.
"What is it?"
The voice responded.
"Go to where Borzoi is."
A pause.
Then—
"Deal with the situation."
The man smirked.
And stepped into the portal.