Our Family Has Fallen

In a small village within the Empire’s territory, villagers huddled on the ground, shivering with fear. They were surrounded by barbarian warriors, whose attire was distinct from their own. A perimeter of white wolves patrolled the outer edge; no one dared to flee. The remains of a body, torn apart and devoured by the wolves until only scattered bones were left, served as a grim example.

”Even the meekest mountain mole will fight back, yet whatever we do, they just scream,” a warrior said.

”True, these Imperial People are even weaker than moles.”

”...”

The barbarian warriors chatted idly. They seemed disgusted by the commoners’ lack of resistance, which robbed them of the thrill of the hunt.

The Barbarians of the Mountains, whether men, women, or children, were all incredibly fierce. When their tribes were attacked, they would all take up arms and resist fiercely, never surrendering after only one or two deaths as these villagers were doing.

All traces of the dejection they felt when they first emerged from the Mountains had vanished from their faces. After Warwolf led them in slaughtering several villages, they had regained their confidence against these farmers who could only wield hoes.

They had even grown arrogant, completely forgetting their earlier disgrace when the Cavalry scattered them and chased them into the Mountains to escape with their lives.

But the focus was not on them; it was on their leader, Warwolf.

Warwolf sat cross-legged on the ground, holding a Wolf Head Carving. Had Lance seen it, he would surely have recognized it as being very similar to the one confiscated from the alpha wolf.

However, the carving in Warwolf’s hands looked far more ancient. The wolf head itself seemed to possess a certain vitality, as if it might break free from the wood at any moment.

This was an artifact infused with the Wolf God’s Power, a method through which the Wolf Head Tribe enabled outsiders to receive this power.

It was incredibly difficult to find their target in such a vast territory of the Empire, so Warwolf knew he had to rely on the Wolf God’s guidance.

Only after the ritual site was prepared did Warwolf place the Wolf Head Statue upon it. He then let out an inhuman howl, like that of a wolf.

The surrounding barbarian warriors instantly changed their demeanor and turned solemnly toward the ritual area. Even the wolves patrolling the perimeter stopped in their tracks, facing the center of the ceremony as if drawn by an unseen force.

”The ritual begins!” Warwolf roared, his head snapping around. For a moment, his gaze was utterly inhuman, like that of a wolf, as he stared at the commoners.

It was no idle boast that his gaze could stop a child crying at night; the villagers, already terrified, were utterly petrified by this look.

But the barbarian warriors knew exactly what the ritual required and wasted no time. They promptly seized a villager, dragged him before the ritual site, and forced him to kneel facing the Wolf Head Statue.

The next second, a blade swung ruthlessly.

CRACK! The weathered, sun-beaten head, thin and dry, rolled away. The terror on its face had not yet faded, creating a ghastly sight.

Blood sprayed from the severed neck, splattering onto the Wolf Head Statue.

Within two or three seconds, the decapitated body slumped to the ground, only a small trickle of blood now flowing out.

This horrific scene finally jolted the dazed villagers back to their senses. Panic-stricken wails and desperate pleas for mercy erupted, plunging the area into chaos.

But what chance did these unarmed villagers stand against the murder-hardened barbarian elites? Control was quickly reestablished. Villagers were dragged out one by one to be beheaded, and soon, blood soaked nearly the entire ritual site.

The air grew thick with the stench of blood. All the barbarian warriors seemed to have descended into a killing frenzy, their souls consumed by bestial rage. Their faces twisted into strange, wolf-like expressions, barely human.

What was even more bizarre was that the Wolf Head Statue, which should have been drenched in the copious amounts of blood, showed no trace of it whatsoever.

The only anomaly in the entire area was visible solely to Warwolf, the chosen one: the Spiritual Essence within the Wolf Head Statue was visibly intensifying, coalescing into a faint black mist that swirled above it.

Human Sacrifice. This was a common ritual in the Mountains, where tribes would offer the lives and blood of their enemies to their Spirit of the Wilderness.

Every kill Warwolf made signified an increase in the Wolf God’s Power. This was why the tribal Priests, despite their disapproval of his actions, found it difficult to oppose him.

Being God’s chosen meant Warwolf had earned the Wolf God’s favor. It also made him the second person in the tribe, aside from the Priests, capable of communicating with the Wolf God.

By pleasing the Wolf God through this ritual of human Sacrifice, Warwolf now sought the location of the lost Wolf God Bloodline.

The black mist swirling above the statue began to quiver and then slowly drifted in a specific direction.

Having received his guidance, Warwolf looked in that direction; this was why he was confident of finding the lost bloodline.

Using this method, he had steadily closed in on his target along the way. The cost—massacring several villages—was insignificant to these barbarians.

The blood needed for the ritual materials was inexhaustible, and he was destined to become Legendary!

AWOOO!

A distant wolf howl suddenly shattered the frenzied atmosphere of the ritual. Warwolf, realizing something, looked up to see a Hawk circling high in the sky.

Seeing this, he quickly stood up, grabbed the Wolf Head Statue, and turned to shout to his tribal warriors.

”Move! Those bastards have caught up! Into the wilderness!” he commanded.

The barbarian warriors, as if jolted by a sudden realization, snapped back to their senses. Their earlier arrogance vanished, replaced by a palpable fear.