Chapter 65: Tribal Tattoo
Clay slowly closed his eyes.
For a brief moment, everything around him seemed to quiet down, as if the battlefield itself held its breath, as if even the wind dared not disturb whatever was about to happen next, and those who were watching him could not explain why their instincts suddenly told them to remain still.
Then it came.
A presence.
Not violent.
Not explosive.
But heavy.
It flowed out of Clay like something ancient waking up from a long slumber, something that did not belong to this land, something that did not feel like ordinary mana, and yet it pressed against the surroundings with a kind of authority that made even the strongest among them feel uneasy.
The air grew thick.
The ground beneath his feet seemed to respond.
And slowly, very slowly, markings began to form.
At first, it was nothing more than faint lines appearing on his skin, barely visible beneath the refined and elegant suit of the Valmont Family that he wore so naturally, his posture still composed, his presence still calm, yet those faint lines began to grow clearer, deeper, more defined as they spread across his body.
But they did not reveal everything.
They did not spread across his arms where his sleeves remained untouched.
They did not crawl down his neck fully.
Instead, they gathered.
They focused.
They rose toward his face.
Dark patterns began to emerge along his jaw, climbing upward toward his cheek, stretching toward his temple, forming intricate designs that looked both savage and regal at the same time, as if they carried the history of a tribe that worshiped strength above all else.
Each line pulsed faintly.
Each curve seemed alive.
Each marking carried something that Borzoi could not mistake even if he tried to deny it.
Bersuka tattoos.
His breath caught.
His eyes widened.
That... that’s impossible...
Clay remained still, his eyes still closed, as the markings continued to settle, no wild transformation, no loss of control, no eruption of madness like what the Bersuka warriors experienced when they entered their Berserk state.
He stood there like a noble.
Composed.
Calm.
Completely in control.
And yet carrying the very essence of the Bersuka Tribe within him.
Borzoi took a step forward before he realized it.
Then another.
His heart pounded harder with every passing second as he stared at Clay’s face, unable to look away from the tattoos that should not exist in that manner.
Did he just... control them?
Did he just bring them out at will?
His throat felt dry.
His mind raced.
Finally, he could not hold back anymore.
He dropped to one knee again, his voice filled with disbelief and something dangerously close to reverence.
"Young Warchief... how... how did you do that...?"
He raised his head slowly, his gaze locked onto Clay’s face as if searching for an answer that could make sense of what he was seeing.
"In our tribe... the Bersuka tattoos only appear when we enter Berserk Mode. They are not something we can control. They come with rage, with instinct, with loss of restraint. They consume us as much as they empower us."
His voice grew heavier as he continued, each word filled with the weight of generations.
"But what you did... this is different. You are calm. You are not in Berserk Mode. And yet the tattoos obey you... they appear where you want them... they remain stable... controlled..."
His fingers trembled slightly.
"In the records of our tribe... there are only stories... ancient stories passed down from the earliest days of our ancestors. It is said that the first Bersuka warriors, those who stood at the peak of our bloodline, could wield the tattoos without losing themselves, that they could summon the power without being consumed by it, that they could carry the Berserk within them without becoming beasts."
He swallowed.
"But those are legends... not something we have ever seen... not something anyone in the current generation can achieve..."
His voice dropped.
"Unless..."
His eyes widened further.
"Unless you are... one of them... an ancestor reborn..."
Clay opened his eyes.
Then he laughed.
A relaxed, almost amused laugh that carried no mystery, no hidden meaning, no ancient secret behind it, just simple confidence.
"No."
He waved his hand lightly.
"I’m not your ancestor."
Borzoi froze.
Then Clay added casually, as if he was talking about something completely ordinary.
"I just awakened a tattoo with five phases."
Borzoi blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then his face twisted.
His body shook.
And without warning—
He vomited.
The sound echoed awkwardly in the quiet battlefield as he leaned forward, unable to contain the reaction that came from deep within him, his entire understanding of his tribe collapsing under that single sentence.
Five phases.
Five.
His stomach churned again.
Meanwhile, far away on another continent, inside the massive chamber where the Shaman and the other Warchiefs observed everything, silence fell like a heavy curtain.
Then—
One of them gagged.
The Shaman himself covered his mouth, his body trembling as if he was trying to suppress the same reaction.
"Five... phases...?"
The Buzzon Warchief stared blankly.
The Teumora Warchief clenched his jaw.
The Fleur Warchief’s flames flickered wildly.
The Wozver Warchief took a step back.
Their minds reeled.
The strongest phase they knew...
Was the third.
Even their own Bersuka Warchief, the one who had dominated their generation, had only reached that level, and it was already considered something that few could ever hope to achieve.
Beyond that...
Was history.
The fourth phase was something recorded in ancient texts, spoken of with awe, rarely seen, almost mythical.
And the fifth...
The fifth was not even something they treated as real.
It was a legend.
Something tied to the very origins of their tribes.
Something only their ancestors, the true founders, were said to have possessed.
And now...
This boy...
This human...
Spoke of it as if it was nothing.
As if it was something he had casually picked up along the way.
The Buzzon Warchief slowly turned his head toward the Bersuka Shaman.
He did not speak.
He did not need to.
The question was clear in his eyes.
Are you really going to refuse him?
The Teumora Warchief’s gaze followed.
The Fleur Warchief remained silent but watched closely.
The Wozver Warchief did the same.
The Shaman trembled.
His hands shook.
His thoughts spiraled.
He did not know what to do anymore.
Back at the Border Town, Borzoi finally wiped his mouth, still shaking as he forced himself to speak again.
"Young Warchief... please... do not joke about such things..."
His voice was weak.
Unsteady.
As if he was begging for reality to return to something he could understand.
Clay tilted his head slightly.
"You don’t believe me?"
He smiled.
A dangerous smile.
"Do you want me to punch each of your limbs one by one so you can feel it clearly?"
Borzoi immediately shook his head, his face pale as he stepped back and lowered himself again.
"No... that will not be necessary..."
He retreated respectfully, no longer daring to question anything.
Clay snorted lightly, then shifted his attention.
"Anyway..."
He looked at Borzoi again.
"Why were you guys sent here?"
Borzoi hesitated.
His lips parted slightly.
His eyes flickered.
But before he could answer—
Clay spoke again.
"To train, right?"
Borzoi froze.
Clay continued casually.
"You stirred up the beasts. Made them go mad. Increased their aggression. Then threw your younger generation here to fight them. Whoever survives grows stronger. Whoever dies... doesn’t matter."
Borzoi stared at him.
Speechless.
He knows...
Clay shrugged.
"It’s obvious."
He crossed his arms.
"I’m the Warchief now. Of course I can figure out something that simple."
He cleared his throat slightly, then continued.
"But that’s not important right now."
His expression changed.
More serious.
"I want the Bersuka Tribe to stop attacking the Holy Kingdom."
Cerys, standing slightly behind him, added calmly.
"Young master, also include the Shadow Saive Kingdom."
Clay nodded.
"Right. That too."
He looked back at Borzoi.
"I don’t want your people messing with those places anymore."
Borzoi opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
For the first time since accepting Clay as his Warchief...
He hesitated.
Then...
He went silent.