CHAPTER 230: CHAPTER 193: FANG WOLF TRIBE_1

In the Misty Mountains, rugged paths and dense ancient jungles ensured "civilization" could not extend its reach. Only "barbarism" ruled this land.

The Barbarian Tribes dwelling here knew how to exploit the resources of the mountains and forests. Huge, pointed wooden stakes were driven into the ground, forming a continuous palisade—the tribe’s primary defense. Enemies and wild beasts alike found it difficult to breach on their first attempt.

The people protected within the palisade, men and women alike, were all of nimble build. They dressed, to varying degrees, in garments and ornaments made from white wolf pelts, not to mention their most important possessions: their weapons.

Even children carried Short Swords, Daggers, or similar weapons. They roughhoused with the white wolves ubiquitous within the tribe, their innocent smiles suggesting a life without worry, as if this were a veritable paradise.

But a glimpse of the corpses hanging on the outer palisade made it clear this was no peaceful haven.

Various mutilated bodies, not yet fully decayed, had clearly been hung up in just the last few days. Strangely, all had their hands severed at the wrists, and many of the corpses consisted only of an upper torso.

As for their lower halves? One only had to observe the white wolves roaming near the palisade. Their gazes were fixed on the half-corpses yet to fall, while some wolves continually leaped and clambered, eager to tear off more Flesh.

Evidently, the tribe had recently been victorious in war. Most of the dead were captives from other tribes, though a few resembled Imperial People.

The severely wounded did not even qualify to become Slaves; they were simply hanged.

Death was a mercy, sparing them further pain. But those still clinging to life endured the agony of the Wolf Devouring.

To these tribal barbarians, such cruel and bloody sights were mundane. For them, the cadavers were like treats for dogs, stimulating the wolves’ hunting instincts.

The Fang Wolf Tribe was peaceful—if one ignored the Slaves and the prisoners hanging dead.

Yet, within this supposedly tranquil barbarian tribe, the white wolves suddenly froze as if sensing something. They lowered their bodies slightly, showing fear, and sidled away.

Even the five- and six-year-old children noticed, their gazes involuntarily following the direction of the wolves’ retreat.

A man approached. His visage was fierce, his features almost inhuman. Combined with his thick, wiry hair, he bore a slight resemblance to a wolf.

He stood over two meters tall, clad in heavy Scale Armor. His bare arms were knotted with muscle, each fist the size of a human head—no one could doubt the power of such a physique.

He wore a cloak made from a full wolf pelt, its head resting on his left shoulder like a shoulder guard. A string of Wolf Fang necklaces adorned his neck, and various other strange, barbarian-style ornaments hung at his waist.

He wielded a long-handled Battle Axe, its exaggerated size begging the question of what kind of strength was needed to wield it.

He looked less like a man and more like a ferocious beast from the Mountains.

He was Warwolf, the new chief of the Fang Wolf Tribe!

By his side padded a Giant Wolf with pure white fur. This was no exaggeration: it was as large as a horse, and one swipe of its paw could likely crush a human skull.

Behind the chief followed a troop of armored and well-armed Barbarian warriors. They were all in high spirits, the blood on their bodies still caked and not yet fully dry, as if they had just come from a battlefield.

Behind them were the spoils of their latest hunt: an Imperial caravan. Some wagons were piled high with goods, while others were laden with corpses from which blood still dripped.

The rich, metallic scent of blood agitated the nearby white wolves. Yet, they only dared to lick the blood dripping to the ground, not venturing any closer.

"The chief is back!"

"We’ve reaped quite a haul this time!"

"Mama, I want that one."

"..."

Reverence, bordering on fanatical worship, lit up everyone’s faces upon seeing him.

The Slaves, however, dared not look at him directly. They trembled uncontrollably, their faces etched with terror.

This was the man who had destroyed their tribes...

Warwolf waved his Battle Axe, signaling the warriors to return to their homes. Others would deal with the plundered goods. The corpses, stripped bare, were dragged from the carts and thrown directly onto the ground.

The waiting wolves surged forward, tearing at the corpses.

The innards were their favorite. A wolf’s jaws clamped down, tearing through skin to reveal yellowed fat and bloodless, pale muscle, then finally, the organs within the abdominal cavity.

It was as if the bodies burst open. Organs spilled onto the ground, releasing a thick stench that further inflamed the white wolves’ savagery. They fought each other for the "tastiest" morsels; the victor plunged its entire head into a carcass to gorge, its once-white fur quickly becoming matted with blood.

Even the children joined in, utterly unafraid of the gory scene. They rummaged among the corpses for "toys," some even plucking eyeballs directly from severed heads...

The chief did not linger, instead heading directly towards the forbidden area at the back of the tribe’s encampment.

Beneath a twisted, eerie, black-grey ancient tree, its branches were adorned with desiccated hands, so numerous they were like leaves, obscuring the sunlight.

Embedded in the tree trunk were haphazardly arranged white Skeletons—not human, but wolf skulls. The Flesh of every dead white wolf was consumed by its packmates; only their bones were left here.

Nestled among the tree’s gnarled, intertwining roots was a black stone carving. Its lower half was already enveloped by them, leaving only a ferocious, howling wolf’s head exposed.