Chapter 30: Flexing
The Grassland – Several Weeks Later
In the middle of the windy grassland, a group of scavengers walked through the tall swaying grass. Every one of them looked like a tough bastard that had survived more winters than they should have.
Leading them was a familiar dwarf. Drak, the scavenger chief that Theo, Tara, and David had visited several weeks ago.
“Chief, we’ll arrive soon,” one of his men said nervously. “Do you think we’ll really be fine there? Are you sure they won’t let those demon hounds eat us if we say no to their alliance?”
“Tch. What other choice do we have, Mikol?” Drak grumbled. “You think we can keep living around here without worrying those damn demon hounds might track us down someday?”
Mikol stayed silent.
“Sure, we could run farther into the grassland,” Drak continued, “but that means moving hundreds of miles away from our territory. And you think we can survive that kind of journey without losing people?”
No one answered.
“Just remember this,” Drak said while glaring at the others. “Once we arrive there, stand straight and act tough. Don’t look weak. If they think we’re weak, they’ll start looking down on us. That’s why I brought you and the other strong men with me.”
“Y-Yes, chief!”
Mikol immediately straightened his posture and puffed out his chest, showing off his large muscular build.
“There!” one of the men at the front suddenly shouted. “I can see their village!”
As Drak and the others climbed onto a hill mound and looked ahead, every one of them froze.
“W-What is that…?” Drak muttered in disbelief.
What stood ahead was definitely still a scavenger village, the tipi tents proved that much. But the rest looked completely wrong.
The village itself stood on top of a raised hill, yet the hillside no longer looked natural. The slopes had been reshaped into massive layered earthworks that wrapped around the settlement like giant defensive terraces.
And on top of those mounds, are walls. Actual walls.
Half of the village perimeter was already covered by stone foundations and wooden palisades, while the unfinished sections swarmed with workers hauling rocks and timber under organized supervision.
Men and women worked together without shouting or confusion. Everyone seemed to already know what they needed to do.
Drak stared at the growing fortress with disbelief written all over his face.
“What the hell are they trying to build here…?”
---
The Village – Entrance
Moments later, Drak and his group stood in front of the village’s main gate. And once again, they froze.
Hanging above the gate was a wooden sign, a completely normal wooden sign with words carved onto it.
Blackstone.
“Chief…” Mikol whispered while leaning closer to Drak. “Can you read it?”
“How the hell should I know?” Drak whispered back irritably.
Unfortunately, like most people living in ancient times–fantasy or not–neither Drak nor his men knew how to read. Survival alone already consumed most of their lives. Hunting, scavenging, relocating, avoiding stronger tribes, avoiding monsters, there was never time for useless things like literacy.
“That writing is definitely the name of their village,” Drak muttered.
“T-They actually named their settlement…” Mikol said quietly.
For scavenger tribes, that was abnormal, dangerously abnormal.
Most tribes deliberately avoided giving permanent names to their settlements out of pure practicality. If one of their members offended another tribe, revenge became harder when nobody knew which village they belonged to.
The closest thing they had to names were lazy descriptions like River Village, Hill Camp, or East Grassland Tribe. And even those changed constantly whenever a tribe relocated.
Cowardly? Yes. But cowardice kept scavenger tribes alive.
Meanwhile this place? These lunatics carved their settlement name directly above the front gate like they wanted the entire world to know where they lived.
“J-Just keep looking tough,” Drak ordered under his breath. “Don’t embarrass me once we get inside.”
“Y-Yes, chief!”
Mikol and the others immediately straightened themselves again, trying their hardest to look intimidating instead of terrified.
“Move aside please, coming through.”
A woman’s voice suddenly came from behind them.
“Who the hell told us to move?” Mikol snapped while turning around. “Don’t you know who we ar—”
The rest of his sentence died instantly. Because standing behind him, was a demon hound.
A massive furry face stared directly at him from less than an arm’s length away, its sabertooth fangs visible beneath its lips.
Mikol froze, so did everyone else.
The demon hound tilted its head slightly while staring back at him.
“Rrraar.”
It let out a low growl.
“GYAAAH!!” Mikol, Drak, and the rest of the men yelped and instantly jumped aside to clear the path.
As the path cleared, the demon hound calmly walked forward. A villager sat on its back holding the reins, while behind the beast a wooden cart loaded with stones rattled across the ground.
“Ah, sorry about that,” the rider said casually while passing them. “My hound gets cranky when people block the road too long.”
Drak and his men could only stare with stiff expressions as the demon hound continued dragging construction materials into the village like some oversized farm animal.
“T-They use demon hounds for labor…?” Drak muttered in disbelief.
“Ah, chief Drak, is it?” Another voice suddenly called out.
Drak turned and saw Captain Matheo approaching with four of his men behind him.
“Welcome to Blackstone,” Matheo said before giving a sharp salute.
Drak and the others had absolutely no idea how they were supposed to respond to that.
“…Matheo?” Mikol muttered uncertainly.
“Mikol?” Matheo replied. “Long time no see. You weren’t around when I visited your village before.”
“Uh… yeah, I was away,” Mikol answered awkwardly before looking him up and down. “You’ve… changed somehow.”
Mikol himself was a large intimidating man carrying a greatsword on his back. Normally, people stepped aside when they saw someone built like him.
But Matheo and his men gave off a completely different pressure.
Every one of them wore the exact same uniform. The exact same spear and shield. The exact same shortsword and knife hanging from their waists. Even the way they stood looked identical, disciplined and steady like they had practiced it thousands of times.
It didn’t look like a scavenger tribe anymore, it looked organized. And somehow, that felt far more threatening.
“Well then,” Matheo continued, “you’re the last village chief to arrive. The others are already waiting inside.”
He gestured politely toward the village interior.
“Please follow me. I’ll guide you to the meeting place.”
“Y-Yes,” Drak replied.
And so Drak and his men entered the village behind Matheo’s group.
---
As they walked deeper into Blackstone, Drak and the others couldn’t stop looking around.
The village still resembled a normal scavenger settlement at first glance. Tipi tents, leather workers, drying meat. Those parts were familiar, but the details felt unnervingly different.
The muddy dirt paths common in scavenger camps had been replaced with packed stone and pebble roads that made walking surprisingly comfortable. The village itself looked clean, with barely any visible trash scattered around.
Even the tents were arranged neatly with equal spacing between them instead of the usual chaotic placement scavenger tribes lived with. Nothing looked random here, everything looked planned.
Meanwhile, the entire village looked busy with activity.
Some villagers were hauling stones and timber to continue building the walls. Others worked on leathercraft beneath shade canopies. Some carried water. Some sharpened tools. Everyone moved with purpose, and strangely enough, nobody seemed confused about what they were supposed to do.
Drak even spotted a teenage boy going around collecting scraps and litter despite the mess clearly not being caused by him.
The whole place felt… organized.
“Did you all…” Drak asked hesitantly toward Matheo, who still walked ahead of them, “plan to settle here permanently?”
Matheo glanced back at him while continuing forward.
“Yes, chief Drak,” he answered politely but firmly. “We intend to make this our permanent settlement.”
Drak frowned slightly after hearing that.
“Are you perhaps…” he asked carefully, “trying to become like the agro tribes?”
Matheo stayed silent for a few moments before replying.
“That is not something a simple soldier like me can answer,” he said calmly. “You should ask chief Tara directly.”
“S-Soldier?” Mikol repeated with surprise. “You mean… you people actually have an army here?”
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
Three loud metallic bells suddenly echoed across the village.
Drak and his men instantly became alert and reached for their weapons, but then they noticed something strange.
None of the villagers reacted. The workers kept hauling stones, the leather workers kept sewing. Even the children continued playing normally.
“Is there danger?” Drak asked cautiously.
“Ah, no,” Matheo replied casually. “That’s just the time notification. Three bells means it’s currently three o’clock.”
“…Clock?” Drak muttered with confusion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Matheo didn’t answer. Instead, he stopped in front of a tipi tent larger than all the others nearby.
“We have arrived,” he announced while standing beside the entrance flap. “Only the chiefs may enter. My men will guide your escorts to the waiting area.”
He then gave a respectful gesture toward the tent.
“Please, chief Drak.”
---
Conference Tent
And so, Drak entered the tent alone.
The moment he stepped inside, he saw seven people already waiting within the large conference tent. The other scavenger chiefs.
They sat around a strange C-shaped table arrangement, three on the left side, four on the right, while the center section remained empty seemingly reserved for someone important.
And every single face inside carried the same uneasy and unsettled expression.
Though honestly, Drak barely paid attention to them at first. Because his eyes were immediately pulled toward the object hanging from the center pole of the tent.
For scavenger tribes, decorating a chief tent with animal trophies was normal. Goat skulls, wolf heads, bison horns, those things symbolized strength and survival. But this one, this was not an animal.
It was the severed head of a goblin general.
Even dried and mounted, the thing still looked monstrous with its pointy chin and ugly nose.
Drak froze. His mind was busy repeating the same question. How the hell did this village manage to kill something like that?
A goblin general never traveled alone. A creature like that commanded entire hordes. Hundreds of goblins at minimum.
Yet somehow these people had killed it… and casually hung its head inside their meeting tent like a hunting trophy.
“Ah, it seems everyone is finally here.” A cheerful female voice suddenly broke the silence.
Drak turned toward the entrance and saw Tara entering the tent with confident steps and a relaxed smile on her face.
“Thank you for coming, everyone,” Tara announced casually.
Then she grinned.
“Now then… shall we begin the meeting?”