As Elder Sandra's words faded into the restless air, a sudden shift rippled through the gathering. It was subtle at first—a tightening of posture, a quiet pause in conversation—but it spread quickly, like a silent command passing through the crowd. People instinctively turned their heads, then parted, forming a widening path.
Another group had arrived.
They cut through the sea of bodies like a blade through softened wax, their movement steady, deliberate, and unquestioned. No one blocked their way. No one dared.
At the forefront walked a man so immense that he seemed to distort the space around him.
three meters tall, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, he stood like a towering tree rooted in the earth itself. His presence was overwhelming—not because he demanded attention, but because it was impossible to ignore him. Every step he took carried weight, not only physical but symbolic, as though the ground itself acknowledged his authority.
Odin.
The Chief of the Root Tribe.
Even among warriors, even among elders, he was a figure of legend. Draped over his shoulders was the full carcass of a massive lion-like beast, its mane framing his upper body like a savage mantle. The skull rested behind his head, transformed into a symbol of dominance rather than death. Scars crossed his exposed skin—old, pale marks etched by battles long past, each one a testament to survival.
Beside him walked two women who, despite sharing similar features, radiated entirely different forms of presence.
The first was clearly his wife.
She moved with quiet dignity, her posture straight, her steps calm and composed. Her emerald-green eyes were serene, yet deep—eyes that had seen loss, triumph, and the slow passage of years without surrendering to bitterness. There was strength in her, but it was subtle, woven into her grace rather than displayed openly.
The second woman was younger.
Much younger.
Yet her presence was anything but fragile.
She resembled her mother in form, but the air around her felt sharper, tighter—like a drawn bowstring. Her golden eyes, identical to Odin's, reflected the sunlight with an intensity that felt almost metallic. They were not curious eyes, nor timid ones. They were the eyes of someone accustomed to being watched, judged, and expected to succeed.
Hope.
The name surfaced in my mind without effort.
Born not merely as a child, but as a wish given flesh—a hope for prosperity, continuity, and strength. Standing there, she carried that meaning effortlessly, whether she wanted to or not.
Behind Odin and his family followed a procession of elders and high-ranking members of the tribe. Their attire varied, but each bore marks of authority earned through years of bloodshed and leadership. They walked with discipline, their expressions solemn, their gazes forward.
Among them, one elder stood out immediately.
Elder Garb.
Compared to the others, his appearance was striking in its simplicity. Where some wore ornate accessories or layered pelts, Garb was clad entirely in the full carcass of a leopard.
The spotted fur wrapped tightly around his frame, its design practical rather than decorative. It suited him perfectly.
Function over display.
Behind Elder Garb stood a young man, roughly the same age as Odin's daughter—perhaps slightly older. He walked with minimal movement, his posture rigid, eyes fixed forward. There was no wasted motion in him, no nervous glances or restless gestures.
He moved like a veteran soldier.
Someone who had already seen battle and learned its lessons well.
I didn't need to be told who he was.
Elder Garb's son.
The murmurs around me grew louder, filled with awe, envy, and barely concealed tension.
Among the younger generation, these figures weren't just leaders—they were milestones. Benchmarks of what strength, discipline, and potential looked like.
Then Fatty Mike leaned closer to me, his voice low but brimming with excitement.
"James," he whispered, eyes locked on the young woman beside Odin, "that girl is his daughter. Hope."
I didn't answer, but I listened.
"She's famous—not just for her beauty, but her power," he continued. "Among our peers, she and Elder Garb's son are at the very top. Absolute monsters."
That caught my attention.
"They're already strong enough to advance to Tier One," Mike said, his tone dropping further.
"They just need to undergo the ritual. But they've been holding back."
Holding back?
In a world where strength was survival, delaying advancement was no trivial choice.
"Three months," Mike added. "Both of them."
I frowned slightly.
"Now I understand why," he went on, suddenly sounding pleased with himself. "To eneter the camp, one must still under a tier 1, that is the basic requirements."
His voice sharpened with irritation.
"Unlike Jerd."
Ah. There it was.
"That bastard rushed his advancement," Mike muttered. "Became the second strongest among our peers just before the camp opened. Took all the attention with him."
Mike clenched his fists, his jealousy barely concealed.
"Let him enjoy it for now," he said bitterly.
"Once I show my brilliance in the camp, I'll reclaim what's mine."
I exhaled quietly, my gaze drifting back to Hope.
She stood perfectly still, her expression calm and unreadable. There was no arrogance in her posture, no deliberate attempt to draw attention. And yet, she commanded it effortlessly.
Strength restrained by discipline.
I understood then why expectations clung to her so tightly.
Fatty Mike sighed dreamily.
"She's incredible," he said without shame.
"That balance—you see it? Feminine, but strong. Not like the others who only stack muscle."
I stiffened slightly.
No. This can't happen.
What I needed now was focus. Time to cultivate. Time to adapt. Time to grow stronger in this unfamiliar world. Distractions—
especially emotional ones—were dangerous.
And yet…
Mike wasn't entirely wrong.
Hope was captivating, not merely because of her appearance, but because of the weight she carried without faltering. To bear such expectations at such a young age and remain composed—it demanded more than strength.
I don't have room for this, I told myself firmly.
As if sensing my inner conflict, Mike nudged me with his elbow.
"What's wrong, James?" he teased. "Don't tell me you're smitten."
I shot him a glare.
"Bro," he continued, grinning shamelessly, "are you stealing her from me? Though, I suppose I could give her to you. You don't have a woman anyway—this could be my greatest gift."
He puffed out his chest proudly.
"So go on. Worship your handsome, generous brother—"
I stomped hard on his foot.
"Ow!" Mike yelped, hopping back. "What the hell was that for?!"
"Watch your mouth," I said flatly.
Teasing from Sister Jean was already unbearable. I had no intention of becoming the subject of further mockery—especially over feelings I hadn't even allowed myself to acknowledge.
Mike scowled, rubbing his foot.
"You're no fun," he muttered.
Despite myself, a faint sense of balance returned.
Maybe we're even now, I thought.