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”We need to think this through,” Sol said, his eyes locking onto the older men. ”This timing is far too coincidental. An army of this size, moving this cleanly after supposedly fighting a beast tide for two days, arriving at the exact place right before the enemy hits our rear? It defies basic logic.

We should be careful about them.”

The moment the words left Sol’s mouth, the atmosphere shifted violently.

The elders, who had just been praising Sol’s genius a mere hour ago, suddenly turned on him with sharp, defensive glares.

The fear of facing the four-thousand-man Coalition army alone was so paralyzing that the sudden prospect of having a thousand fresh Zharun warriors on their side had become an addictive, blinding drug.

They desperately needed Vane’s story to be true, because the alternative was very risky with a legitimate threat of death.

”Hold your tongue, outsider,” one of the senior elder snapped, his face flushing with irritation. ”We have all admitted that you possess a top-class mind for planning and strategy. You led the dawn raids brilliantly.

But you do not know the history of the Great Orrath, and you do not understand tribal matters!”

”He is right,” another elder stepped up, pointing a crooked finger at Sol. ”This involves the Sacred Pact! It is an absolute vow bound by the blood of the ancestors. Something an outsider like you cannot possibly comprehend the significance of.

Zharun has sworn on the Pact, and his explanation aligns with the harsh realities of the Orrath!”

”Look at our numbers, Sol!” a third elder argued, gesturing frantically to the few hundred warriors. ”Honestly, our plan was already a suicidal risk! We only have a few hundred true warriors.

If the Coalition hits the pass and your trap fails, we will be slaughtered. Having a thousand fresh Zharun warriors standing beside us isn’t a trap.... it is a literal blessing from the heavens! Ancestors must have heard our call of help and sent them. We need their spears!”

Hearing this fanatical talk, Sol didn’t argue back.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t try to reason with them logically. He simply stood there, arms crossed, listening to the elders and a few of the older warriors passionately defend the sacred pact as if it were the only thing keeping the sky from falling, their voices growing more heated and righteous with every word.

”The pact is sacred!” one gray-bearded elder shouted, his voice trembling with righteous fury. ”It has bound our tribes for generations! Breaking it brings ancestral wrath! We cannot turn away the Zharun now... not when they have come to honor it!”

Another elder slammed his bone staff against the ground. ”You speak of caution, outsider, but you do not understand! The spirits watch over such oaths. To doubt the Zharun now is to invite disaster upon all of us!”

A few of the veteran warriors nodded vigorously, their faces flushed with emotion.

”We have survived this long because we honor the old ways! The pact is our backbone. Without it, we are no better than the beasts in the jungle!”

Sol watched them in silence, his silver-crimson eyes calm but cold.

In his past life, Sol had learned one hard truth above all others: you cannot reason with a fanatic.

Especially a religious one.

These people could happily give their lives for their beliefs. They could ignore mountains of evidence, logic, and cold reality if it contradicted the sacred stories they had been raised on.

In his past life, he had watched people cling to beliefs with the same blind desperation. No matter how much evidence you showed them, no matter how logical the counterargument, fanatics... especially religious or cultural ones... would rather die than let go of their convictions.

The ”Sacred Pact” wasn’t just a treaty to them... it was a divine commandment, an unbreakable bond blessed by the ancestors themselves. To question it openly was to invite not just disagreement, but genuine outrage.

Sol understood that perfectly.

A drowning man will happily grab onto the blade of a sword if he thinks it will pull him out of the water. Fear and fanaticism had completely compromised their logic.

Right now, the Veynar were desperate. They had been betrayed, attacked, and pushed to the brink.

The idea of the Zharun suddenly appearing as allies... even if it was suspicious... felt like salvation. They wanted to believe it. Needed to believe it. Any attempt by Sol to push back too hard would only make them dig their heels in deeper.

So he stayed silent.

His silver-crimson eyes remained calm as he watched the elders nod vigorously to each other, reinforcing their own narrative.

Sol’s expression didn’t change, but inside, his mind was already moving several steps ahead.

He didn’t need to convince them right now. Arguing would only create division at the worst possible moment. Instead, he would let them have their moment of hope. He would watch and wait.

And if his suspicions about the Zharun proved correct, he would act when the time was right... with or without their approval.

”Anyway, let them believe what they need to believe. Fanatics are easiest to control when they think they’re in control.” He thought coldly in his mind.

Instead of looking at the shouting elders, Sol’s silver-crimson eyes slowly panned across the crowd, naturally coming to rest on the figure of Elder Thorne.

Strange, Sol thought, his eyes narrowing slightly.

Throughout this entire exchange.... the shocking arrival of the Zharun, the tense standoff, the apology, and the elders’ desperate defense of the alliance... Thorne had not spoken a single word. This was incredibly odd.

Thorne had historically been the most proactive, loud, and aggressive voice advocating for the collaboration with the Zharun tribe. Whenever the Zharun were mentioned in the council huts, Thorne was the first to sing their praises and demand the Veynar bow to their demands.

Yet now, when the Zharun had actually arrived to ”save” them, Thorne was standing silently in the back.