Chapter 61: Premonition
Clay moved.
There was no wasted motion. No warning. No buildup that the eyes could follow. One moment, the Warchief charged forward with everything he had. His third phase burned through his body like a storm that refused to settle. The next moment, he stopped.
No.
He was stopped.
Clay’s hand had already reached him.
His fingers closed around the Warchief’s face. Firm. Unyielding. The violent charge came to a halt, as if the force behind it had never existed at all. The impact that should have shaken the earth never came. The ground remained cracked and broken, yet no new destruction followed.
It was as though everything had been cut off.
Silenced.
The Warchief’s fist hovered inches away from Clay. Frozen. His entire body locked by the grip that held his head in place.
For a moment, he did not understand.
Then the reality sank in.
His body strained.
His muscles tightened.
Every fiber in him screamed as he pushed against the hold. His strength poured out without restraint. His third phase roared through his veins like fire that refused to be contained.
Yet nothing happened.
Clay did not move.
Not even slightly.
He stood there with one hand gripping the Warchief’s face. His posture was relaxed. His expression calm. Almost indifferent. As if what he held was not the strongest warrior of a terrifying tribe, but something far smaller.
Far weaker.
The Warchief roared.
His legs kicked forward. Again and again, they slammed into Clay’s body. Each strike held enough power to shatter bone, to crush steel, to tear through armored soldiers like paper.
Thud.
Thud.
Thud.
Each impact echoed, but Clay did not react.
The Warchief swung his arms wildly. His fists crashed into Clay’s side, his chest, his shoulders. Every hit carried the desperation of someone who refused to accept defeat.
Boom.
Boom.
Boom.
It felt like striking a mountain.
Unmoving.
Unbreakable.
Unfeeling.
His fingers clawed forward, trying to gouge Clay’s eyes. His nails scraped across skin that refused to yield. It did not even flinch.
He twisted his body. He kicked upward. He aimed for the lowest point he could reach. His movement turned desperate, wild, driven by pure instinct rather than control.
Nothing worked.
Nothing even came close.
In Clay’s grasp, the Warchief looked smaller.
Not in size.
But in presence.
In impact.
In everything that once made him terrifying.
Now he looked like a child throwing a tantrum against something that would never respond.
Clay held him there.
Calm.
Still.
Almost bored.
Meanwhile, Borzoi watched.
His remaining hand trembled. His eyes stayed locked on the scene before him. His mind struggled to process what he was seeing.
This was the Nullgora.
A sacred battle.
A test of strength that his tribe held above all else. Warriors were meant to clash with pride. The strong proved their worth through fists and blood.
It was supposed to be glorious.
It was supposed to be intense.
It was supposed to show the true strength of those at the top.
But this was not that.
This was something else entirely.
The Warchief kicked again.
Punched again.
Struggled again.
And yet it looked like nothing more than a toddler flailing against a stone statue.
That was the only way Borzoi could describe it.
The Warchief who once stood above all of them, who could end battles with a single strike, who carried the pride of their tribe—
Now looked small.
Weak.
Powerless.
And Clay did not even look like he was trying.
The difference between them was not just large.
It was overwhelming.
It crushed everything Borzoi believed in.
His lips parted slightly.
"This... cannot be real..."
Behind Clay, the reaction was the complete opposite.
The Captain was the first to recover.
His eyes lit up. His chest rose as his breath returned in full force.
"Young master!"
His voice burst out, filled with excitement he could no longer contain.
"He’s holding him!"
The knights followed. Their voices rose together, loud and full of energy.
"He’s not even moving!"
"That monster can’t even do anything!"
"Our young master is invincible!"
The archers above the walls joined in. Their voices echoed across the battlefield as they cheered without restraint. Their earlier fear vanished, replaced by pride and relief that filled their hearts to the brim.
"Young master Clay!"
"Young master Clay!"
"Long live the Valmont family!"
The chants grew louder.
Stronger.
They repeated his name again and again. Their voices overlapped. Their excitement fed into one another until the entire border town seemed to shake with their praise.
Even those who had fallen earlier forced themselves up. They raised their weapons. They shouted with everything they had as they looked at the figure standing at the center of it all.
Clay Valmont.
The one who stood unmoved.
The one who held the Warchief like he was nothing.
Meanwhile, Cerys watched.
Her eyes followed every movement. Every attempt. Every failure of the Warchief. She observed quietly from behind Clay.
She had already understood.
The strength.
The difference.
The gap.
The Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe was powerful. Far more powerful than anyone she had encountered in this land. If she were to compare, perhaps only that Minotaur from before could stand on a similar level.
Yet even that thought felt distant now.
Because Clay stood above it.
Effortlessly.
But that was not what caught her attention.
It was his expression.
His face.
His eyes.
There was no excitement.
No thrill.
No satisfaction.
Only boredom.
A deep, quiet boredom lingered in his gaze as he held onto his opponent. As if none of this mattered. As if even this level of strength failed to reach what he was looking for.
Cerys felt something stir within her chest.
A small, strange feeling she could not immediately name.
Why...
Her heart skipped once.
She blinked.
I am... being affected?
The thought caught her off guard.
She had always been clear about her purpose.
She was here to listen. To observe. To gather what she needed from his thoughts.
Nothing more.
Nothing less.
That was all.
Yet now—
As she looked at him—
As she saw that quiet boredom—
A faint concern surfaced.
Is he... truly feeling that empty?
Her brows furrowed slightly.
Do I... like young master?
The thought appeared suddenly.
And just as quickly, she rejected it.
No.
There was no reason for that.
No basis.
No logic.
And yet her eyes remained on him.
Unmoving.
Meanwhile, far away, in another land, the gathering of Warchiefs watched in complete silence.
The Shaman of the Bersuka Tribe stood still. His aged face had frozen. His eyes were locked onto the image before him. He could not look away even for a second.
Beside him, the Warchief of the Buzzon Tribe stood with his arms crossed. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by something far more serious.
The Warchief of the Teumora Tribe narrowed his eyes. His calm demeanor hid the shock running through him.
The Warchief of the Fleur Tribe leaned forward slightly. Her gaze focused intensely on Clay, as if trying to understand something that refused to be understood.
The Warchief of the Wozver Tribe remained still. His expression was unreadable, yet his silence spoke louder than any words.
None of them expected this.
None of them imagined this outcome.
The Bersuka Warchief, the strongest among them, was being held like that.
Powerless.
Unable to break free.
The silence stretched.
Then one of them spoke.
"What now..."
The question hung in the air.
No one answered immediately.
Then another voice followed.
"Is there... going to be a new Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe?"
The words carried weight.
Heavy.
Serious.
Because what they were witnessing was not just a defeat.
It was something far worse.
Back on the battlefield, Clay sighed softly.
It was quiet.
Barely noticeable.
But those closest to him heard it.
He looked at the Warchief in his hand.
The struggle.
The effort.
The desperation.
It had all become repetitive.
Predictable.
Boring.
He tilted his head slightly.
"Time to end this."
And then he moved.
His arm pulled back.
His fist tightened.
Without hesitation, he drove it forward.
Straight into the face of the Warchief of the Bersuka Tribe.