Chapter 62: Recognition
The impact came.
It did not echo like the previous strikes.
It did not explode with a thunderous sound that shook the land.
It ended everything.
Clay’s fist drove forward, and the moment it connected, the Warchief’s body lost all resistance. The violent force that had once surged through him vanished in an instant, like a flame that had been snuffed out without warning. His head snapped back, his entire form going limp, the terrifying presence that had filled the battlefield disappearing as though it had never existed.
There was no second exchange.
No retaliation.
No last stand.
The Warchief died just like that.
Silence followed.
A deep, suffocating silence that spread across the battlefield, heavier than any explosion that had come before. The broken ground, the cracked walls, the scattered debris, everything seemed to freeze in place as the reality of what had just happened settled into the minds of those who witnessed it.
Clay lowered his arm.
The body slipped from his grasp.
It fell to the ground with a dull sound, lifeless, unmoving, the red that once burned across the Warchief’s skin fading away until nothing remained but a still figure lying in the ruins of his own pride.
For a moment—
No one moved.
The Captain stood there, his mouth slightly open, his mind blank.
The knights behind him stared without blinking, their eyes fixed on the fallen Warchief as if waiting for him to rise again, to prove that this was not real.
The archers above the wall leaned forward, their hands gripping their bows tightly, yet none of them drew an arrow. Their thoughts had long since left the battlefield.
Borzoi remained rooted in place.
His legs felt weak.
His breathing uneven.
His gaze moved slowly from the body on the ground... to Clay... and then back again.
Dead...?
The word echoed in his mind.
The Warchief... is dead...?
It did not make sense.
It should not have been possible.
The strongest warrior of their tribe.
The one who stood above all others.
The one who had reached the third phase.
And yet—
He died.
Just like that.
Without resistance.
Without dignity.
Without anything.
Borzoi’s hand trembled.
His entire belief shattered in that single moment.
Then—
The silence broke.
"Young master!"
The Captain’s voice rang out first, loud, filled with disbelief that quickly turned into something else.
Something brighter.
Something louder.
"Young master Clay!"
The knights followed.
Their voices rose, one after another, until they merged into a single roar that echoed across the battlefield.
"He won!"
"He killed him!"
"The Warchief is dead!"
"Our young master did it!"
The archers joined in, their cheers coming in waves, growing louder and louder as the truth fully settled into their hearts.
"Young master Clay!"
"Long live young master Clay!"
"Long live the Valmont family!"
The entire border town erupted.
The fear that had gripped them earlier vanished completely, replaced by overwhelming relief and pride that filled every corner of the battlefield. Weapons were raised, voices were lifted, and the name of Clay Valmont echoed again and again, louder each time, as if they wanted the entire world to hear it.
Clay stood in the middle of it all.
Unmoving.
Unbothered.
He glanced at the body for a moment.
Then looked away.
...That’s it?
A small disappointment lingered in his chest.
He had expected more.
At least something that could break the monotony.
But in the end—
It was still not enough.
The cheers continued behind him, yet he paid them little attention.
Then—
Something changed.
The air grew colder.
Not with fear.
Not with killing intent.
But with something ancient.
Something old.
The cheering slowly faded as the soldiers began to notice it as well.
The wind stopped.
The dust that had been drifting in the air froze in place, as if the world itself had paused for a brief moment.
Then—
A faint darkness appeared.
It did not come from above.
It did not come from below.
It came from behind Clay.
At first, it was nothing more than a thin mist, barely visible, rising slowly like smoke that had no source. But then it grew.
More appeared.
And more.
And more.
The shadows gathered.
They twisted.
They stretched.
They formed shapes that did not belong to anything human, figures that stood tall, some massive, some thin, some carrying the faint outline of weapons, others nothing more than vague silhouettes that flickered in and out of existence.
They surrounded Clay.
Not touching him.
But standing behind him.
Watching.
The soldiers fell silent once more.
The Captain swallowed.
"What... is that...?"
No one answered.
Because no one knew.
Except—
Borzoi.
His eyes widened.
His breathing stopped.
For a moment, he could not even feel his own body.
Then the realization struck him.
The spirits...
His voice came out weak.
"The... spirits of the tribe..."
His knees nearly gave out.
It’s real...
The Nullgora.
The sacred battle.
The one that decided everything.
The one that determined who stood at the top.
The one that called upon the ancestors.
He had heard of it.
Everyone in the tribe had.
But never—
Not once—
Had he seen it like this.
The spirits gathered behind Clay, their forms becoming clearer, their presence heavier, pressing down on the surroundings with an invisible force that made even the strongest among the soldiers feel small.
These were not ordinary shadows.
These were the remnants of warriors.
The ancestors of the Bersuka Tribe.
The ones who had lived.
Fought.
Died.
And now—
Watched.
They did not attack.
They did not move.
They simply stood there.
Behind Clay.
As if acknowledging him.
As if recognizing him.
Borzoi’s lips trembled.
"He... won..."
The words came out slowly.
"He won the Nullgora..."
His eyes lowered.
"He is... the Warchief now..."
The meaning of it carried everything.
The right.
The authority.
The inheritance.
The spirits began to move.
Not aggressively.
Not violently.
They approached.
One by one.
Their forms passed through Clay, merging into him without resistance, as if they were returning to something that now belonged to him.
Each one that entered caused a faint ripple in the air.
A quiet pulse.
A deep resonance that spread outward.
The soldiers watched with wide eyes.
The Captain took a step back.
"What is happening to young master...?"
Cerys narrowed her eyes.
Her gaze remained fixed on Clay, her expression serious.
She could feel it.
Something was changing.
Something was being added.
Something that did not belong to this land.
Clay felt it too.
The moment the first shadow entered his body, a strange sensation spread through him, not painful, not overwhelming, but unfamiliar.
It was cold.
Yet powerful.
It moved through his veins, settled deep within him, and then another followed.
And another.
And another.
Each one brought something with it.
Strength.
Instinct.
Something primal.
Something violent.
Something that resonated with battle.
What is this...
His thoughts paused.
Then—
A familiar voice appeared.
Ding.
The system.
Host has completed a high-tier condition.
Clay’s eyes narrowed slightly.
What now...
Host has successfully won the Nullgora.
Host has been recognized by the Bersuka Tribe’s ancestral spirits.
Reward being granted.
The shadows continued to merge into him.
The sensation grew stronger.
Reward: Anti Magic acquired.
Clay’s eyes widened slightly.
Anti magic...?
The energy inside him changed.
A new layer formed.
Something that rejected.
Something that denied.
Something that stood against magic itself.
Reward: Berserk Mode acquired.
Another surge followed.
Hot.
Violent.
Explosive.
It settled within him, waiting, silent for now, yet filled with a potential that felt dangerously immense.
Clay blinked.
...You’re kidding me.
He stood there for a moment, processing it.
I just... got that?
Behind him, the last of the shadows merged into his body.
The air returned to normal.
The wind began to move again.
The pressure lifted.
The battlefield returned to its ruined state, yet the atmosphere had changed completely.
Borzoi fell to one knee.
His head lowered.
His voice trembled.
"Warchief..."
The word came out without resistance.
Without doubt.
Without denial.
Because there was no other truth left.
And in that moment—
Clay realized something.
...I got stronger again.