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From the seat of the Great Chief, Urich could see things that he could not before. The massive organization called the alliance was no different from a living entity. Numerous chiefs and factions were intertwined, constantly checking each other.
Urich often dreamed. It had been so long since he had a peaceful sleep that he couldn't remember the last time. The tribe and the alliance were responsibilities and burdens that Urich never wanted. Urich’s only wish was for his people to not become slaves of the empire. It was the spirit that arose from the heart of a young barbarian.
—Urich.
Urich woke up because of a voice. Was it Gizzle’s voice? Or was it the vengeful spirit of Samikan? Urich was bearing the legacy they left behind. It was like a curse he couldn't get rid of even if he wanted to give everything up.
Murmur, murmur.
The commotion outside his tent gradually seeped in as his ears slowly woke up with him.
Splash.
Urich lightly washed his face with the water in the basin. The cold water refreshed his muddled mind as they seeped into his skin.
‘Right, I was attacking Marganu. How many days has it been now?'
Urich looked at the dented armor in the corner of the tent. Bloodstains clung to the axe and sword lying beside the armor. He had been so tired that he had fallen asleep without even maintaining his weapons.
There had been several skirmishes, and the army of Marganu, which had fled, had locked themselves behind the gates, refusing to come out.
Creak.
Urich donned his armor and fastened the straps. If not for the steel breastplate, he would...
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