Chapter 19

[Skill [Tracking] has been learned.]

[Proficiency earned. [Tracking Lv.1] improved to [Tracking Lv.2]

…

Hakon noticed several follow-up messages, which explained quite a lot. [Tracking] helped him find his way back home.

Learning the Skill would have come without his Ancient Power – at some point – but he would have never improved it this quickly. Enhanced Comprehension helped him out of the mess…again.

To think I disliked awakening The Mind not too long ago. He chuckled, hefting Crusher with one hand.

It slammed on his shoulder, its grotesque appearance for everyone to see. Then he strode through the tribehold, following excited voices and engaged growls and roars.

The outskirts were empty and dimly lit. No one stayed behind, unwilling to miss the events of the full silver moon night. Hakon’s heart beat rapidly, but the hesitation that had plagued him after the Rite no longer plagued him. He did everything in his might to grow stronger since the Rite and it showed.

The crack in his confidence had long since mended, and the laughs of his fellow brethren were no more than a whisper in the back of his mind.

As he walked down the path to the Monolith, he faced several men and women of the past. They regarded him highly even though his physique had not been as wide as the others. They’d respected him for his strength rather than his unlike appearance. But even that was taken from him after the Rite.

The way the tribesmen looked at him that day had carried a deeper meaning than a thousand words. And now that he met them again, their respect mattered no longer. He ignored them even as their eyes widened and trudged into the brightly lit up center of the tribehold, his gaze lingering on the Monolith. The very structure that channeled the Ancestors’ will inside him. It awakened the power that shaped him into a new person ever since that night.

Murmurs reached his ears, but Hakon tuned them out. His gaze flitted from the Monolith to the Shaman, whose ink-covered body carried an entirely new meaning now that he reached the 1st Ascension. The Shaman was covered in Runeskins, yet they too were engraved and interconnected with ink, concealing the identity of his Runeskins. But something was odd.

Hakon tried to use [Inspection] on the Shaman as he approached the stage before the Monolith. He failed. Instead of information, he encountered a firm wall that not only repelled him but counterattacked, assaulting his mind instead.

He suppressed a pained groan and grimaced, the Shaman’s head flicking toward him, the faintest hint of a smile playing his lips.

Several tribesmen turned as the Shaman looked past them. Their brows furrowed when they saw him, but they parted ways for Hakon. Their grunts and curses reached his ears, yet they did not prevail for long. He consumed them, their words of ridicule no more than fuel that pushed him further.

The stage, carved from stone and adorned with gemstones and a plethora of engravings Hakon had never seen before caught his attention. Half a fortnight ago, the stage had not been there, but he didn’t doubt that the tribesmen did everything possible to honor the Ancestors’ wish for the Battle of Generation.

The scenery unfurling before him was mesmerizing. The engravings glowed and illuminated the tribehold center dimly, which was only further highlighted as the golden lining spread throughout the Monolith sparked to life as well.

“The Ancestors are watching.” The Shaman intoned, his attention flicking back to the Monolith. He knelt down, his voice thrumming with otherworldly power. “May the Great One shine upon us. Let him judge the Battle of Generation, welcome the rise of the next Warlord.”

The warriors roared in tune to the Shaman’s words, the cacophony of overlapping voices carrying their excitement and thirst for blood, their fists hammering against their chest. They too welcomed the rise of the next Warlord.

Hakon joined the roar and only resumed to walk to the stage when the excited shouts and thunderous roars of the others died down.

More warriors parted ways for him, but some wouldn’t move. They turned to him, their wide frames blocking him from his rightful place beside the stage, where all the other young warriors were waiting for their turn to present themselves and in front of the Ancestors.

The warriors’ faces scrunched up at first, but the corner of their lips curled up into mocking smiles shortly after.

Seriously? Hakon was no fan of their nonsense. He let out a growl and pumped mana through the pathways, his grip around Crusher tightened. His knuckles crackled, and he was ready to smash their heads for obstructing his path. How dare they stop him from joining the sacred ritual!?

“Let him through.” Father’s voice boomed across the tribehold.

The warriors blocking Hakon tensed and turned, yet they did not open a path. Not right away, at least.

Driven by impatience, Hakon used [Dash] and leaped across the warriors in a moment of carelessness.

“Father.” He approached the chieftain after a smooth landing, his frame as massive as ever. Yet, something had changed since they last met.

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His father felt as powerful as ever, but he was no longer as imposing as he used to be. He felt more like a Barbarian than a legendary warrior at this moment.

“Son.” The chieftain said, his steely eyes regarding him from head to toe.

“Did you come here to desecrate the Ancestors’ sacred ritual?” He growled deeply, his presence crushing down on Hakon.

Resisting the pressure his father emitted was no easy feat. His legs threatened to cave in, yet he prevailed, his eyes meeting his father’s.

“You are late.” The presence retracted, “But not too late.”

He snapped his fingers at someone, “Bring my son some clothes. Clothes worthy enough to stand before the Ancestors.”

That was…odd. Was his father angry at him or was he happy to see his son again? And how were his clothes important? It was not like anyone wore multiple layers of clothes. It was the opposite if anything.

Hakon turned to glance at the other young warriors to see that most Bloodbearers were only lightly clothed. The men barely covered their lower bodies, whereas the women’s chests were wrapped in cloth or leather.

Looking down at his body did explain what his father had been about. He was naked. Completely, utterly naked. His clothes did not heal when flesh and skin did. They likely suffered greatly from the Acidic Beetles’ constant bombardment. Or was it against the Colossal Terror? It had covered his entire body in its acidic spit.

Hakon shrugged lightly. It didn’t really matter all that much.

A young man no more than a few cycles away from undergoing the Rite himself rushed up to the chieftain and placed a set of trousers made by tempered bear hide. The stitches were not as crude as Hakon was used to. They were symmetrical and almost too valuable to be worn for ordinary occasions. Alas, the Battle of Generation was no ordinary occasion. It was an event that changed the lives of many.

“You know what that means?” The chieftain pointed at the trousers.