The moment our voices broke the fragile stillness of the gathering, I knew—without needing to look—that every gaze had shifted toward us.
Chief Odin had arrived with the weight of legend behind him, accompanied by elders, warriors, and figures whose mere presence demanded reverence. The air had been solemn, heavy with anticipation, until two foolish youths disrupted it.
Mike and I.
Who wouldn't notice? Two idiots stealing attention during the chief's arrival—it was almost impressive in the worst possible way.
This is bad… I thought grimly.
On my very first day, and I've already failed at staying invisible.
I felt the pressure immediately. The collective focus of hundreds pressed against my skin, tightening my chest. My spine stiffened instinctively, as if bracing for a blow.
"Oh?" Chief Odin's voice rang out, deep and resonant, cutting through the murmurs with effortless authority. "Looks like we have familiar faces."
He turned fully toward us.
"Elder Sandra. Captain Jean."
His gaze then shifted—slowly, deliberately—to Mike and me.
"And these two young boys," he continued, a faint edge of amusement in his tone, "who have somehow managed to steal my limelight."
My scalp prickled.
I could feel sweat forming along my back, soaking into my clothes. Mike, usually fearless to the point of recklessness, stood unnaturally still beside me. Even he understood the gravity of this moment.
I opened my mouth, unsure whether to apologize or simply accept whatever punishment might come—
"Ahem."
A soft cough echoed beside Chief Odin.
Madam Elizabeth.
The chief's wife did not raise her voice, nor did she frown. Yet the sound carried unmistakable meaning. A reminder. A warning. Or perhaps a quiet plea to remember where he stood and who was watching.
Odin paused.
For the briefest moment, his expression shifted. Then he straightened, his earlier sharpness smoothed beneath the dignity befitting a chief addressing his people.
It saved us.
"Please forgive the children's behavior, Chief Odin," Elder Sandra said calmly, stepping forward before the tension could escalate further. Her voice carried both humility and quiet confidence. "This is my son, Mike."
She rested a hand briefly on Mike's massive shoulder.
"And this," she added, gesturing to me, "is James. The adopted younger brother of Captain Jean."
The words struck deeper than I expected.
Adopted brother.
Even now, hearing it spoken publicly made something tighten in my chest.
Chief Odin studied us anew, his sharp gaze lingering on Mike first.
"Hm," he hummed thoughtfully. "Your son has grown quite… large, Elder Sandra."
He paused, clearly searching for a better phrasing.
"Ah—big. Very big," he corrected himself, though the faint glimmer of humor in his eyes betrayed him. "Much bigger than the last time I saw him. How old was he then? Five? Six?"
Mike's nostrils flared slightly.
He said nothing, but I could sense his irritation.
For all his boisterousness, being commented on like livestock was not something he appreciated.
"Five years old, Chief," Elder Sandra replied evenly. "That was the last time you saw him."
"Ah, yes… yes," Odin nodded slowly, as though retrieving the memory from a distant shelf. His gaze then shifted to me.
Recognition dawned.
"And this young man," he said, his voice lowering slightly, "is the one the tribe calls the Lost Soul."
My heartbeat stuttered.
So he knew.
Of course he did.
"He truly stands apart," Odin continued, eyes narrowing with interest. "A slender body… but eyes that burn with something fierce."
He stepped closer.
The pressure of his presence intensified.
"Tell me, Captain Jean," he said, turning toward my sister, "is he a fire-affiliated practitioner?"
The question caught me off guard.
Fire?
Instinctively, I wanted to deny it—but the truth was, I didn't know.
I had seen my reflection back on Earth countless times. My eyes had always been ordinary—dark, perhaps with a faint reddish tint under certain lights. Yet here, under Odin's gaze, I became suddenly aware of heat behind my eyes. Not pain. Not anger.
Something… alive.
"No, Chief," Sister Jean replied after a brief pause. "At present, we cannot determine his attribute using the soul stones available within the tribe."
Her voice was calm, respectful, but firm.
Soul stones.
The term stirred memories from the books Jean had given me.
They were artifacts forged in the great cities—devices crafted through unknown materials and techniques, capable of interacting directly with one's soul. When touched, the stone revealed elemental affinity through glowing runes, sometimes even awakening dormant monster spirits within a person.
They were used before final enhancement rituals to prevent fatal incompatibilities.
Yet they were imperfect.
Elemental mutation existed. Some people were born with rare or sub-elements, diverging entirely from their tribe's lineage. This was one of the many reasons countless tribes existed across the world—each shaped by divergence, survival, and adaptation.
"I see," Odin murmured.
His gaze lingered on me a moment longer.
"What a peculiar child," he said at last.
I couldn't tell whether it was praise or warning.
"Well," he continued, turning away, "I must proceed to the platform and inform the people about the Hunter Apprentice Camp."
He inclined his head slightly toward Elder Sandra and Sister Jean.
"Excuse me."
With that, he resumed his walk toward the platform, flanked by his wife, his daughter, and the gathered elders. Elder Sandra followed shortly after, leaving us standing among the high-status figures near the side.
As Hope passed in front of me, she slowed—just enough.
Her golden eyes flicked toward mine.
For a fraction of a second, our gazes met.
She tilted her head slightly, as if reassessing something she had dismissed earlier. Then, without expression, she turned away and continued following her father.
The moment passed—but its weight remained.
Behind her, Jerd walked by.
"Tch."
The sound was soft, dismissive, yet laced with arrogance.
He didn't even bother looking at me.
In that instant, my earlier impression of him shifted.
This wasn't discipline.
It was pride—unchecked and sharpened into disdain.
Mike exhaled sharply once the tension eased.
"Heh," he muttered. "I smell jealousy in the air."
I shot him a warning glare.
He immediately shut his mouth.
Now was not the time.
We stood beside Sister Jean among the high-ranking figures, facing the vast crowd of ordinary tribesmen. The platform loomed ahead, and soon the chief would speak—words that would shape the paths of every youth present.
I folded my hands slowly, steadying my breathing.
Jealousy. Pride. Attention.
None of it mattered.
What I needed was power.
Not affection. Not rivalry. Not validation.
Strength.
Opportunity.
The Hunter Apprentice Camp.
That was the path forward.
Whatever distractions awaited—whether they came in the form of arrogant rivals or golden-eyed daughters of chiefs—I would not lose sight of my goal.
This world did not reward hesitation.
And I had already wasted enough time being weak.