Chapter 78: The Butcher’s Stall
Kellar followed Krag toward the butchering grounds.
"The butcher’s name is Borgan," said Krag in a low voice as they walked. "He’s managed the tribe’s meat distribution for years under the old chief. He’s used to running things his own way and holding tight control over the food supply."
Kellar listened in silence, his expression calm as they reached a broad wooden shed near the central plaza. Enormous stone slabs served as cutting tables, covered in red stains.
In the center stood Borgan—a thick-set man with a leather apron covered in grease and blood. He was barked orders at three young apprentices struggling to cut through the dense scales of one of the newly arrived giant fish.
"Careful with those scales, you fools! You’re ruining the best cuts!" said Borgan, slamming a bone mallet onto the table.
Noticing Krag and Kellar, the apprentices fell silent. Borgan turned around resting his hand on the hilt of a carving cleaver stuck into the wooden block beside him.
"Shaman Kellar," said Borgan, his voice rough. "I didn’t expect you to visit my cutting tables today. To what do I owe the honor?"
"I came to see how the fish we brought from the river is being processed," said Kellar, stepping forward to inspect the giant carp on the main slab.
Borgan let out a low laugh, crossing his arms over his chest.
"The catch is good, but my boys are wrecking their tools trying to skin these armored beasts," said Borgan, staring directly at Kellar. "If you want this meat processed and salted before it spoils, I’m going to need more men, more salt, and full authority over how the rations are distributed to the lower sectors.
Kellar looked at Borgan, noticing how naturally the man spoke to him without a shred of reverence or recognition.
"You don’t remember me, do you?" said Kellar.
"My apologies, Shaman. I spend all my time here at the butchery, so I rarely get involved in political matters. I regret not recognizing you sooner," said Borgan.
"I remember you cursed at me, calling me a greedy brat over a pig you tried to steal from me when I brought it back from a hunt," said Kellar.
Borgan’s eyes widened in realization as he stared at Kellar’s face.
"You... you’re that brat," said Borgan.
Kellar let out a cold laugh as his right hand burst into a dark crimson glow. In an instant, a jagged bolt of dark energy shot from his palm—[Chaos Lightning Strike]. The blast struck Borgan square in the chest, lifting his body off the ground and throwing him backward into a pile of wooden crates, leaving him squirming on the floor in agony as red sparks crackled across his skin.
Kellar took a slow step forward, looking down at the trembling man.
"Do you remember me now?" said Kellar.
Borgan gasped for air, coughing up blood as dark red sparks continued to arc across his chest, burning through his thick leather apron. The apprentices backed away in terror, trembling against the stone cutting slabs.
"I... I remember... Shaman Kellar," said Borgan, his voice shaking as he struggled to raise his head from the dirt.
Kellar walked over until his boots were inches from Borgan’s face.
"Good," said Kellar, his tone cold and unyielding. "Because let me make one thing crystal clear. Your days of demanding authority over food distribution and treating the lower sectors like dirt are over."
Krag stepped forward, watching the scene with a hard glare as Borgan winced from another pulse of chaos energy.
"From now on, you process the meat we bring you," said Kellar. "Every single piece will be cataloged and distributed strictly according to my orders. You work for the tribe, Borgan, not for your own pocket."
Borgan pressed his forehead against the ground, his previous arrogance entirely shattered.
"I understand... Shaman Kellar... I will obey," said Borgan through gritted teeth.
"Get up and get back to work," said Kellar, turning his back on him. "And if I hear of a single strip of meat missing, you won’t live to regret it."
Kellar turned his head slightly toward Krag, keeping his voice cold and loud enough for every butcher in the shed to hear.
"Assign a guard to watch his every move," said Kellar. "If he does anything suspicious, like spoiling meat on purpose or faking accidents, kill him. We have no use for scum in this tribe."
"Understood, Shaman," said Krag.
Krag turned toward one of the young men standing nearby.
"Grok, go get Itzy," said Krag. "Starting today, she’ll be an apprentice butcher here. Didn’t she always say she wanted to learn?"
Borgan gritted his teeth against the dirt, feeling a cold sweat run down the back of his neck. The plan he had been concocting in his mind just moments ago had been dismantled: he had intended to rupture the fish’s gallbladders during gutting to ruin large cuts of meat, excuse himself by claiming it was an unfortunate accident due to the tough hide, and hoard the intact portions for himself.
However, as he looked up, he met Kellar’s gaze head-on. The new shaman was staring straight at him with ice-cold eyes that seemed to read every single one of his rotten thoughts, having anticipated his move before he could even execute it.
"U-Understood... Shaman Kellar...!" said Borgan, swallowing hard and pressing his forehead back against the ground to hide the terror on his face.
Kellar didn’t say another word. He held his gaze for a second longer, ensuring the warning was scorched into the man’s mind, before turning around and walking calmly away from the butchering shed.
Borgan remained sprawled on the dirt floor, trembling from the residual jolts of chaos lightning, fully aware that a single wrong cut on the fish would mean his execution.
As Kellar walked away from the butchering shed, Krag fell into step beside him, a sharp look of satisfaction in his eyes.
"That will keep him in line," said Krag. "Itzy is sharp. She won’t let a single scrap of meat go unaccounted for."
"Good," said Kellar. "Fear will keep him working for now, but we need people in key positions who are truly loyal to the tribe’s growth, not just scared for their lives."
Kellar paused at the edge of the central square, looking out over the expanding village. The rhythmic sound of hammering wood, the chatter of builders, and the smell of fresh timber filled the crisp air. With the meat supply secured and the workers organized, the foundation of his new territory was finally taking shape.