Chapter 9: Footprints and Bones
The trees here were ancient—towering sentinels watching over forgotten paths, their roots twisted and deep in the blood-soaked soil of the borderlands. Tyris walked slowly, his boots brushing aside fallen leaves and crumbling twigs. This forest, dark and humid, sat between the great powers of the continent—a no man's land teetering on the edge of civilization and savagery.
To the west lay the Wind-Cloud Domain, whose warriors wielded wind-like speed and floating blade techniques. To the north, the cruel expanse of the Northern Ice Palace, ruled by emotionless ice cultivators who froze enemies in body and soul. To the east, angled southward, stretched the vast Empire, the same place that once broke his body and spirit. And to the south, beyond the last trees, began the end of the Blue Star Continent itself—open grasslands, wild tribes, and then the Falconion Continent across a 500-kilometer ocean.
The air grew still. Tyris crouched, examining something in the dirt. A shallow footprint—humanoid. Not animal. Fresh. He brushed it with his fingers, then moved forward. A few feet later, he spotted something else: broken arrows, scattered carelessly in the undergrowth. Some were snapped, others blood-stained.
There had been a skirmish here.
His senses sharpened. Someone was fleeing. Or being chased.
He didn't speak, didn't whisper. Instead, he followed—one step at a time, tracing the path through the dense trees. Vines curled like nooses from branches. A foul stench came and went, possibly from rotting corpses or wild beasts. Birds no longer sang here. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
He moved for hours. Then he rested. Drank dew. Ate jerky.
Then I moved again.
It took him two full days to reach the edge. But when he did, the forest opened like a curtain being drawn aside, revealing something far more primal.
Before him stretched an enormous grassland—flat and golden, basking in the sun. The sight of it was surreal after days of gloom and shadow. But it was not the beauty that held his gaze. It was what lay within it.
Countless tents dotted the landscape—made from animal skins, giant bones, and rough wood. Some stood tall like pillars, others hunched close to the ground. Smoke trailed lazily from large fire pits. Flags made of beast hides fluttered weakly in the wind. The smell of roasted meat, dung, and wet fur hit him like a wall.
This was no ordinary settlement.
This was the southern wilds—home of the barbarian tribes.
He stood still, eyes scanning the horizon. The tribes weren't unified. Each had their own symbol, their own pride, and their own hatred.
Across the endless southern grasslands, countless tribes carve out their existence beneath the open sky. Yet among them, a select few rise in prominence—renowned for their numbers, strength, and legacy. These are the great tribes, whose names echo across the continent like thunder on the plains.
Garuda Tribe — over 20,000 strong. Their symbol: a great eagle. Proud and fierce, known for aerial maneuvers and beast taming.
Kingfisher Tribe — numbering 30,000+, with the fish as their symbol. They built homes near rivers and lakes, experts in underwater ambush.
Volken— more than 15,000 members. Their symbol: the black wolf. They were hunters of the night and had over 100 black wolves under their command.
Polar Tribe — massive in strength and in number, with 30,000+ people. Their white polar bear symbol stood tall on banners. These people thrived in the cold and used sheer force.
Willow Tribe — gentle but mysterious, 20,000+ members who worshipped the Nature God, the Old Willow Tree. Their camps were surrounded by vines and trees grown through spiritual rituals.
Ragnar Tribe — now only 10,000+ in number. Once legendary dragon riders, now decimated and declining after the Empire captured or killed most dragons. Their symbol was the dragon, a fading memory of glory.
Bagira Tribe — 15,000+, shadowy and agile, marked by the black panther. Their warriors moved without sound and struck without mercy.Durath – 9,000+: Their unyielding defense and stone-forging arts. The Durath are less nomadic, preferring to fortify rocky regions at the base of the western mountains.
Tyris's eyes locked on the outermost tents, where the land dipped and the firelight barely reached. The Brakkar, marked by the rhinoceros, numbered less than 1,000. Theirs was a settlement of the broken—elderly, injured, and children too weak to be stolen.
He observed from a distance.
Their tents were tattered. Poles leaned awkwardly. Animal skins hung like tired flags. The people were gaunt. Many walked with limps or leaned on one another. Some simply lay in the grass, unmoving, not dead—but close.
Tyris didn't move any closer. He didn't call out.
Once, Brakkar had warriors—fierce and strong. But then came raiders—bandits from the empire, sect kidnappers, mercenaries, and rival tribes who no longer saw them as neighbors but as livestock.
Sects like the Heavenly Demon Cult, Shadow Pavilion, and Nether Sect had descended upon their lands like locusts. Their targets were always the same—children under five. Easy to control, easier to shape. These vile groups would poison them or feed them Gu bugs, insects that burrow into the brain and rewrote loyalty, erasing identity.
Those who didn't die became spies, assassins, or tools.
But the true horror wasn't only in the cults. Even other tribes—ones who should've been brothers—attacked Brakkar. They kidnapped their women, took young men as slaves or forced laborers. Some were used as playthings, others never returned.
Each time, Brakkar grew smaller.
Each raid stripped them of a generation.
Each season, their tents shrank.
Now they were little more than a memory, waiting to vanish with the next storm.
Tyris stood quietly. He saw the people. Their suffering. Their quiet.
He saw a woman stitching a torn cloak, her fingers shaking.
He saw a boy sitting beside a pile of bones, sharpening one into a knife.
He saw an old man with a wolf bite on his leg, wrapping it with leaves that would never heal it.
They had no priests. No warriors. No guards. Not even lookouts.
They were prey.
And the grassland—so wide, so open—felt like a stage. One where predators watched from afar.
Tyris stepped back into the shadows of the forest. The world before him was sick. No laws. No mercy. No hope.
But it was not his place to judge it.
Not yet.
He turned his gaze to the horizon, where the sun bled into the sea line. Beyond that sea lay the Falconio Continent—another world, another fight. But before Tyris could think that far, he knew he had to understand this land first. Its pain. Its decay. Its truth.
The wind whispered through the grass.
He didn't know how long he stood there. But he knew one thing.
The forest behind him was dark.
But the grassland ahead was dying.