Chapter 89: The Fall of the Elites
The thundering sound of boots crashing against the snow shattered the shrieks of the noblewomen.
Krag, Marty, and the entire hunting squad burst into the central plaza with their weapons drawn, their faces contorted in rage. Having sprinted at full speed upon hearing Grok’s horn, they expected an invading monster or a surprise raid, only to find a group of disgraced elites screaming insults at their shaman.
"Shut your filthy mouths, you wretched hags!" said Krag, his voice echoing like thunder as he slammed the butt of his giant mallet into the frozen dirt.
The hunters formed a lethal circle around the agitators, pointing their spears and blades directly at the trembling family heads. Mark, who had been dragging timber nearby, froze in his tracks, his face draining of all color as he recognized his own relatives among the crowd.
"You dare raise your voices against Shaman Kellar?!" said Marty, stepping between the screaming matron and Kellar with his blade gleaming in the pale light. "He saved this tribe from starvation while your precious leaders left our brothers to die! One more word out of any of you, and I will stain this snow with your ’noble’ blood!"
The women, who had been so bold seconds ago, gasped in terror and scrambled backward, hiding behind their husbands as the cold reality of steel and muscle crushed their fragile arrogance.
Kellar raised a single hand, signaling his warriors to stay their blades. The plaza fell into a deathly silence, save for the breathing of the hunters and the howling winter wind.
Kellar stepped forward slowly until he stood face-to-face with the spokesman who had led the group. He didn’t shout; instead, his tone was quiet and laced with an authority that made the air itself feel suffocating.
"Noble blood?" said Kellar, letting out a short, cold laugh. "In this valley, the only blood that matters is the blood you spill to keep this tribe alive. While my hunters bleed on the ice and these workers break their backs building shelter for your children, you sit here crying because your meals aren’t served on a platter."
He swept his gaze across the terrified group, his green eyes flashing with a faint, crimson spark.
"Let me make the laws of the Overlord Tribe clear to all of you," said Kellar, his voice carrying to every corner of the plaza. "There are no nobles here. There are no lords, no servants, and no royal bloodlines. Under my rule, a person’s worth is measured solely by what their hands contribute to our survival."
He pointed toward the common villagers watching in awe.
"The man who chops timber is my brother. The woman who cooks the broth is my sister. The hunter standing guard in the blizzard is my blade," said Kellar, turning his glare back onto the spokesman. "And those who refuse to work, those who demand to feast while others starve, are nothing."
The spokesman swallowed hard, his knees shaking so violently he could barely remain upright.
"Shaman... we... we did not mean to..." said the spokesman, stammering.
"I gave you equality, and you called it an insult," said Kellar, stepping into his space until the man had to lean back to meet his eyes. "You want special treatment? Fine. Starting today, your families are stripped of your current idle roles. Mentz!"
Mentz stepped forward from the crowd, leaning on his wooden crutch while holding his charcoal maps.
"At your command, Shaman!" said Mentz.
"Assign every single one of these ’nobles’ to the heaviest labor details," said Kellar. "They will haul timber for the dining hall and clear snow from the construction sites. If they work hard, they eat. If they refuse, not a single scrap of meat touches their lips."
"It shall be done, Shaman!" said Mentz, a hint of satisfaction gleaming in his eyes.
A wave of cheers erupted from the surrounding villagers. The common folk, who had suffered under the tyranny of these families for generations, shouted words of praise for Kellar, their admiration for his rule reaching an all-time high.
The women of the elite group wept in bitter humiliation, while the men bowed their heads in utter defeat, realizing their golden age of privilege was officially buried in the snow.
Kellar turned his back on them, looking toward Krag and Marty.
"Take their names and hand them over to Mentz," said Kellar. "And Krag... once you’ve settled this trash, gather the squad at my residence. We have a real threat to prepare for."
After a few hours, everyone was gathered inside Kellar’s residence. The eleven hunters, including Krag, sat surrounding the table while watching the shaman in silence. Each of them held a wooden cup filled with Kellar’s special wine, but no one dared to take a single sip upon seeing their leader’s distant, thoughtful gaze.
"Shaman..." said Krag, breaking the tense silence.
"I’m sorry, I got distracted," said Kellar, looking up to meet their eyes. "We need to deal with a real threat. As you can see, one of us is missing; that is because he is tracking the tribe that attacked us last time. I have a strong feeling they will attack again soon. I initially wanted to organize an expedition to wipe them out beforehand, and I was planning to take Mark’s group of hunters... but it seems they are on the verge of rebellion. Taking those men with us under these conditions would only get us all killed along the way."
All the hunters nodded their heads in silence, sharing the exact same thought regarding the disloyalty of Mark’s men.
"We are far too few," said Kellar, pausing before continuing. "Even without counting on the Bear God’s blessing, they are more numerous and much more experienced in combat. Therefore, instead of marching on a blind expedition into their lands, we will prepare to face them directly at our borders... If they set foot here, we must be completely ready."
Without wasting a second, Kellar unrolled a large parchment across the table, covered in schematic drawings and a detailed map of the region. It wasn’t that the tribe lacked maps entirely, but the rudimentary sketches the hunters usually relied on were... pitiful.