Back outside the camp, Chief Odin slowly raised his hand.
The movement was simple, almost casual—yet the effect was absolute.
The thunderous chanting ceased as though severed by an invisible blade. Hundreds of voices fell silent at once, leaving behind a vast stillness that pressed heavily against the ears. In that sudden quiet, I became acutely aware of my own breathing, of the rapid pulse pounding in my chest.
Heat surged through my veins.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't excitement alone.
It was reverence.
Only then did I truly understand how deeply this man was rooted in the hearts of the tribe. Chief Odin was not merely respected—he was believed in. Trusted. Followed without hesitation.
"Everyone, listen carefully," he said, his voice steady and commanding. "All tribal men, step back twenty-five meters. All participants of the Hunter Apprentice Camp—move to the center."
No one questioned him.
Parents gently released their children. Warriors guided the crowd backward. The clearing widened as if the world itself were rearranging to make space for what came next. One by one, the chosen youths stepped forward until more than a hundred of us stood together at the center of the training ground.
I felt exposed.
Surrounded by so many unfamiliar faces—some calm, some trembling, some burning with anticipation—I suddenly realized how small I was. Not in body alone, but in experience. Compared to the expectations now placed upon us, my past struggles felt distant, almost insignificant.
Chief Odin surveyed us slowly.
"Good," he said. "Now we formally begin."
His gaze sharpened, as if each of us were being etched into his memory.
"These children standing before you are the new hope of the Root Tribe," he declared. "With enough time, they will become the pillars that hold up our future."
He paused.
"Unfortunately, our era does not allow us the luxury of comfort."
A ripple passed through the crowd.
"The world grows more dangerous with each passing year," Odin continued. "Opportunities for growth are fleeting. Survival demands preparation. Therefore, with the unanimous approval of the elders and the Grand Elders, we have established the Hunter Apprentice Camp."
His voice deepened.
"This camp exists for one purpose—to temper raw ore into steel, to polish rough stones into diamonds."
My fingers clenched unconsciously.
I could feel it—the weight of his words settling into my bones.
"Some of you," Odin said, his eyes narrowing slightly, "were born with potential but lacked the resources to awaken it fully. Here, that limitation ends."
A few children straightened unconsciously.
"For others," he continued, turning his gaze toward those standing with confident posture and fine equipment, "you were born with privilege. With guidance. With protection."
A faint smile crossed his lips—sharp, unsympathetic.
"Allow me to shatter your fantasy."
A murmur rippled through the crowd.
"Inside this camp, status means nothing. Bloodline means nothing. Wealth means nothing. You will struggle as fiercely as anyone else."
His voice hardened.
"You will live and train under the direct tutelage of Tier Four Totem Commanders. Your privileges will be stripped away. If you desire them again, earn them through strength. If you cannot—then lose them forever."
Silence.
"No early withdrawals," Odin added flatly.
I swallowed.
The pressure in the air intensified. Excitement tangled with fear. Pride wrestled with doubt. I could see it written on every face around me—the realization that this was no longer a test of talent, but of resolve.
A few breaths passed.
No one stepped back.
Chief Odin nodded in approval.
"Good," he said. "That is the spirit of the Root Tribe."
His gaze softened, just slightly.
"You make me proud. Your parents make me proud. And the tribe places its faith in you."
Then his tone shifted once more, heavy with gravity.
"For the next one year, you will live beyond this fence, under the direct instruction of the Grand Elders."
A collective gasp escaped the crowd.
"You will cut off contact with your families and friends," he continued. "No visits. No letters. No exceptions."
I felt my chest tighten.
one year.
"This is not cruelty," Odin said. "This is necessity."
Even some of the elders exchanged surprised glances. It was clear that this condition had not been widely disclosed.
"Inside this camp," he went on, "lies an opportunity rare enough to change the fate of your lives. With sufficient effort—and sufficient will—you may awaken potential capable of reaching even Tier Five Totem Lord."
The reaction was immediate.
Shock.
Disbelief.
Even the elders on the platform stirred uneasily, their expressions betraying surprise. Tier Five was no ordinary milestone. It was the threshold of legends—the realm of individuals capable of altering the balance of power.
My heart thundered.
Tier Five.
I had barely begun to walk this path… and yet, the door stood open.
"In exchange for this opportunity," Chief Odin said, his voice unyielding, "you will work until exhaustion becomes routine. You will push yourselves until broken bones feel insignificant."
His eyes burned.
"Status and privilege are worthless without power. They only shackle your potential."
He raised his hand once more.
"Bow."
The command struck like a hammer.
"Bow as if you are marching onto a battlefield for the last time—for your family, your tribe, and everything you love."
I hesitated only a heartbeat.
Then I bowed.
Deeply.
As I bent forward, images flashed through my mind—Sister Jean's teasing smile, her quiet concern, the countless books she had lent me without question. This tribe had given me shelter, purpose… and a second life.
"I won't waste this," I swore silently.
"After this bow," Odin continued, "step forward through the gate. Beyond it lies a new beginning."
His lips curved into a fierce smile.
"Unleash your potential. Attain strength worthy of Tier Five. Protect the Root Tribe. And claim the rewards reserved for the strong."
A soft cough echoed across the platform.
Madam Elizabeth stepped forward, her presence gentle yet commanding in its own way.
She smiled warmly.
"Remember," she said softly, "status and privilege are not inherited. They are earned."
Her eyes swept across us.
"Strengthen your resolve. And take your first step toward the future."
The massive wooden gate creaked open.
The sound echoed like the opening of destiny itself.
Children broke formation, rushing toward their families. Tears flowed freely now. Parents embraced their sons and daughters fiercely, as if trying to imprint their warmth into memory.
I turned toward Sister Jean.
She stood tall, composed—but her eyes shimmered.
"Thank you," I said quietly, stepping forward and bowing deeply. "For everything. I owe you more than I can express."
She placed a firm hand on my shoulder.
"Survive," she said simply. "And grow strong."
I smiled faintly. "Take care of yourself. Especially on the expedition tomorrow."
She nodded. "I'll be waiting."
One by one, we returned to the gate.
As the last child stepped through, we turned back as a group. Our voices rose—not rehearsed, not commanded, but born from the depths of our hearts.
"Thank you, Tribe Chief!"
"Thank you, Elders!"
"Thank you, Parents, Family, and Friends!"
Our voices merged into one.
"Thank you, Root Tribe, for this opportunity!"
My chest burned as I shouted with them.
"My blood is Root Tribe!"
"I will live for this Root!"
"If I prosper, you prosper!"
"If I fall, let my body nourish this Root once more!"
"Root Tribe, advance!"
"Root Tribe, nourish!"
Again and again, until our throats ached.
Then the gate closed.
The echoes faded.
And the village—so loud moments before—fell into a profound, reverent silence.
Behind us lay comfort.
Ahead of us lay fire.
And I stepped forward without looking back.