As the elders and the chief's family settled into their seats upon the wooden platform, a hush gradually fell over the training ground. Conversations faded into murmurs, and murmurs dissolved into silence, as if the entire village had drawn a collective breath.
Chief Odin stepped forward.
The platform creaked faintly beneath his immense weight as he moved to its edge, towering above the gathered crowd. Even standing still, he commanded attention—his presence alone enough to remind everyone why he ruled. His broad shoulders were draped in the hide of a lion-like beast, its mane preserved as a symbol of conquest. Scars traced his exposed arms like ancient runes, each one a testament to battles survived rather than avoided.
"Greetings, everyone," he began.
His voice was amplified by a crude trumpet positioned near the platform, yet the device felt almost unnecessary. The power behind his words carried effortlessly, rolling across the village like distant thunder.
"May your health remain steadfast, and may your power continue to advance—so that our tribe may prosper."
The sound reached the farthest corners of the settlement, echoing against wooden walls and wooden watchtowers. It wasn't merely volume that stirred the people; it was authority—solid, undeniable, earned through blood and survival.
This was the presence of a Tier Three Totem Commander.
"Chief Odin!"
"Chief Odin!"
"Chief Odin!"
The chant erupted without coordination, yet rose in perfect unity. The ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of devotion. Children shouted until their throats burned, elders raised their fists, and warriors struck their chests in salute.
I felt it then—a strange pressure in my chest.
It wasn't fear.
It was awe.
I couldn't blame them.
Chief Odin was not merely a leader; he was a living legend. One of the very few recorded figures in the Root Tribe's history who had slain monsters of equal rank—beings whose existence alone could doom entire tribes. His victories had altered the tribe's destiny, elevating it from a struggling minor settlement to be a medium-tier power among humanity's forces.
As the crowd roared, my thoughts drifted back to the books I had read late into the night—the fragments of history painstakingly recorded by scholars and elders alike.
The Neutral Zone.
Before coming to this world, I would have imagined it as a quiet, lawless borderland. A gray area between territories.
The truth was far more brutal.
It was a vast battlefield carved into the heart of the Sacred Island, surrounded by four regions controlled by hidden tribes whose histories stretched back thousands of years. A place deliberately abandoned—not out of neglect, but necessity.
Years of isolation had allowed monster dens to multiply unchecked. Millions of creatures prowled its lands, feeding, evolving, and competing in an endless cycle of bloodshed. Beneath the surface, massive mana veins threaded through the earth like roots of an ancient tree—some decades old, others centuries, and a rumored to be older than recorded history itself.
Those veins were both a blessing and a curse.
The Neutral Zone was governed by an unspoken treaty: only individuals below Tier Four Totem Commander were permitted entry. The logic was simple—allowing stronger beings inside would trigger disasters beyond control.
As a result, the region became a haven for the desperate and the damned.
Criminals fleeing justice.
Bandits driven by greed.
Thus, the Mercenary Camp was born—a force whose strength was second only to the official armies of the Twelve Superpowers. However, the Mercenary Camp was not a single unified force; it was composed of countless mercenary groups, ranging from a few dozen to hundreds of members.
To supervise them, the three Superpowers decided to allow the Mercenary Camp to exist, but not to recognize it as an official new superpower. Instead, it would function as a neutral power where tribes could pay for services.
As for its management, the hidden Sacred Tribes entrusted authority to two exalted powers: the Forge City and the Alchemist Tower, ensuring fairness for all. Though reluctant, they accepted the responsibility and assigned the necessary personnel.
It was there—amid chaos, blood, and shifting alliances—that Chief Odin had forged his name.
In his youth, he had gathered a group of young warriors from the tribes, forming a mercenary squad that survived not through numbers, but through sheer ruthlessness and adaptability. They trained in sweat and blood, learned through loss, and carved a path through monster territory that many believed impossible.
Out of fifteen youths who entered the Neutral Zone with him, only ten returned.
And from those ten, legends were born.
"Hohoho!" Chief Odin laughed, his voice cutting through the echo of memories. "What a warm reception from all of you."
He raised a massive hand, and slowly, the chanting subsided.
"But understand this," he continued, his tone deepening. "The honor you show today does not belong to me alone. It belongs to the Root Tribe—to every warrior who bled for it, every elder who guided it, and every child who will one day defend it."
He paused, letting the weight of his words sink in.
"So, shout with me."
His eyes burned with fierce pride.
"Root Tribe!"
"Root Tribe!" the crowd roared back.
"Root Tribe!"
"Root Tribe!"
Again and again, the chant thundered across the village, echoing far beyond the walls. For several long minutes, the cry did not fade, as if the land itself had joined in.
Far from the cheering crowd, deep within the Hunter Camp, stood a towering structure of logs reinforced with stone and iron. It rose above the surrounding terrain like a watchful sentinel, its shadow stretching long beneath the sun.
At its highest point, three figures sat in stillness.
They appeared almost lifeless—bodies hunched, breaths shallow, eyes closed as though sealed by time itself. The roar of the crowd below barely disturbed them.
Slowly, one pair of eyes opened.
Then another.
And finally, the third.
A thin old man smiled faintly. "Hahaha… you have raised a fine son, Brother Thor."
He nodded toward the distant platform, where the massive figure of Chief Odin dominated the crowd.
The man beside him snorted softly.
"That child never changes," said the burly elder, his voice rough like gravel. "Still full of charisma… and recklessness."
Despite the irritation in his tone, a trace of pride slipped through.
"Do you remember," he continued, "when he built the Root Mercenary in the Neutral Zone? He took fifteen of our youth with him… and returned with barely ten out of fifteen."
He clicked his tongue. "Tssk."
"Hahaha," the old woman beside them laughed, her eyes gleaming with nostalgia. "Listen to yourself, Brother Thor. You sound like a worried father."
She leaned back slightly. "I remember when you were young—bold enough to snatch the bride of another small tribe in the dead of night."
Thor glared at her.
The thin old man quickly cleared his throat, suppressing his laughter. "Hah… enough reminiscing."
His expression grew solemn.
"Time moves too quickly," he said softly. "We are old now. Our years are numbered."
The mirth faded entirely.
"The world is growing more dangerous than it was in past centuries," he continued. "Something has stirred within the Chaotic Mountains. The monsters are restless—enraged."
His gaze shifted northwest, toward the unseen mountains.
"Just like three years ago."
Silence followed his words.
"That catastrophe was no coincidence," the old woman said quietly. "And this time, it may be worse."
Thor closed his eyes. "Which is why the seeds must be chosen now."
"The five-year plan cannot be delayed," the thin old man agreed. "If humanity is to endure, these children must be tempered—before the storm arrives."
One by one, they closed their eyes again.
Above them, the cheers of the Root Tribe continued to thunder into the sky—unaware that far beyond their celebration, the world was already shifting.