Chapter 32: Elder of the Wild Tribes

When Leo and his group descended the low peak and arrived outside the village, a large crowd had already gathered at the entrance. Clearly, hunters concealed in the shadows had long since alerted the villagers.

At the forefront stood an old man, wearing a crown of deer antlers and draped in a cloak of colorful feathers. His face and bare chest, dark-skinned and weathered, were covered in dense war tattoos.

With the surge of imperial culture, tattoos had gradually come to be seen as a barbaric custom. Few among the northern folk now bore tattoos in conspicuous places such as the head, face, or backs of hands. Even the more tradition-minded northern nobles would only have their family war tattoos inked on their backs or chests; more often, they followed southern customs, adorning their robes and banners with such symbols instead.

If not for the lingering soul of the original Leo, judging by the old man’s deeply lined face and graying hair, Leo would have believed him to be seventy or eighty years old. Yet his predecessor’s memories told him that this elder was likely little more than fifty.

It was much the same with Urian—an old man with calloused feet, yet in truth, not even forty. In the wilds, however, fifty years was an age worthy of respect, signifying not only a high status and the ability to survive into old age, but also that the elder had once been formidable, surviving countless battles without sustaining any grievous wounds.

Aside from him, those who came to greet Leo’s party were mostly the elderly, the weak, women, and children. On rooftops, stone walls, and watchtowers, wild hunters stood at intervals, clutching longbows.

These hunters were all tall and powerfully built, with thick, curly hair and full beards, their faces streaked with colored clay. They wore wolf- or bear-headed helms, heavy fur armor, and adorned themselves with bone, fangs, and claws. Fully armed, they exuded a fierce, warlike presence—untamed and formidable.

Leo had heard from Urian that many wild tribes still upheld the ancient northern coming-of-age rite, driving their newly adult children into the wilderness. There, the young lived as beasts, surviving on raw meat and blood until they adapted to the wild and slew a beast formidable enough to prove their courage. Only then were they allowed to return home.

Every adult wild hunter was a warrior, tempered through ceaseless hardship in the wilderness. Even in single combat at close quarters, Leo could not guarantee victory; in woodland skirmishes, he feared he’d be riddled with arrows before he could react.

The original Leo had trained with bow and arrow, but his were self-made soft bows, drawing only a few dozen pounds—suitable for hunting rabbits and fawns, but powerless against wolves, who were too cautious, or bears, whose hides were too thick for such feeble weapons.

It wasn’t that he didn’t wish for a heavier bow; without the skill to craft one, his attempts at powerful hunting bows would either snap too easily or lose all accuracy. They were little more than toys.

The wild hunters, on the other hand, wielded yew longbows of nearly two hundred pounds, capable of killing a brown bear from dozens of meters away. Ordinary folk, untrained, could scarcely lift such a bow, let alone draw it.

If he could avoid it, Leo would never wish to make enemies of the wild folk.

“Greetings, honored elder,” Leo said, stepping forward to meet the villagers, bowing with genuine respect and setting aside all airs.

His humble gesture momentarily startled the old man, catching him off guard.

In the eyes of the wild folk, the imperial pioneers were little different from other foreign invaders—conquerors who seized land by force, driving out or enslaving all others.

For this meeting, the elder had recalled every hunter to the village, intending to display the tribe’s strength and warn the outsiders that they would not be easily intimidated.

He’d expected this imperial envoy or scout to swagger in, issuing territorial proclamations or even demanding tribute or service.

In his half-century of life, the elder had watched the town of Isenborough gradually grow, its surplus population spilling into the wilds, and pioneer knightly domains rising one after another at the foot of the mountains. In just fifty years, at least ten new fiefs had appeared along the banks of the Anzeno River west of Isenborough.

They had resisted, of course. More than twenty years ago, the wild folk had banded together to raid and burn the fragile settlements, logging camps, and mines. The result was a purge by the Frolov family’s knights. Led by powerful awakened knights, the empire’s well-armed infantry and seasoned mercenaries poured into the wilds, crushing the tribes and driving the survivors deeper into the forested mountains.

Now, sheltering in this basin ringed by cliffs and waterfalls, the tribe had nowhere left to retreat.

When the first campfire flared at the riverbend, the younger hunters had urged a night raid to frighten away the newcomers—an impulse the elder well remembered from his own youth. But each time he stood atop the low peak and watched the smoke rising ever closer from the valley below, he could not help but recall how such ventures had always ended.

Violence might bring respite for a time, but it could never be a lasting solution. So thought the elder, who followed the druidic path and had grown ever more inclined to reflection.

“You are well, too, child,” he replied. Seeing Leo’s deference, the elder’s face softened into a kindly smile, his response gentle.

Yes, their first exchange had begun, at least, with a smile.

Leo felt himself relax, opening the wooden chest he’d carried with him. “These are gifts from our chief,” he announced.

In the North, the leaders of villages and tribes were called “chief” or “elder.” Titles such as “lord,” “knight,” or “noble” were southern customs and, to the wild folk, synonymous with enemy.

Calling his leader “chief” made his words far more palatable to their ears.

Within the chest lay two steel swords, each wrapped in linen soaked in oil—the very ones gifted by Sir Ramon. These single-handed blades, forged in southern workshops, were a century ahead in craftsmanship. Not only wild tribes, but even the smiths of Isenborough might struggle to produce their like.

“A fine sword! A fine gift!” the elder exclaimed, lifting one by the hilt, flicking its blade and praising it with evident delight. He made a show of his appreciation before handing them off to his people.

In the North, there was no custom of refusing gifts, for every gift was expected to be returned in kind. The elder’s only worry was how to find an appropriate present in return.

After a few words with Leo, the wild elder—whose name was Zulvan—turned his attention to Freya. His kindly expression grew solemn; he straightened his feathered cloak and antlered crown, then bowed deeply, performing a curious ritual gesture.

“Master Freya,” he said with reverence.