Raskel found the temporary camp, which had around thirty tents and many Karnox nearby. The Karnox resembled a colossal horse-like beast, but its body was far more powerful, brutal, and ancient.

  "They seem quite wealthy for slave traders — even having Karnox," Raskel observed. Guards were positioned everywhere throughout the camp.

  "Young lord, you disappeared in a cloud of dust with that speed of yours. Next time, at least wait for us," the short man complained, catching his breath.

  "Gaska, you're always complaining. You should train more — that way you'd have better stamina for runs," the slim, tall man replied.

  "Zarven, stop looking for a fight with me, or you'll have one," Gaska shot back.

  "Both of you stop. We are on a mission — focus," Mordrak reprimanded them both.

  "We should make our presence known and speak with them," Mordrak suggested.

  "Agreed. But only you will go and gather information. Find out if they are affiliated with any tribe or city." Raskel was curious why such a large camp had appeared here without his tribe's knowledge. He had first assumed they were slave traders, but looking at them now, they seemed far more organized than any simple trading group.

  "Yes, young lord. I will take Zarven with me for assistance." Mordrak was already planning to use Zarven as a scapegoat if things went wrong.

  "What! Why me? Why not Gaska — he's stronger than me," Zarven said. He could already guess what Mordrak was doing.

  "Hahahaha! What are you mumbling about? Sir Mordrak chose you to accompany him, so why do you want me to go in your place? Hmph — don't shame the Shakra tribe with your fear." Gaska was gloating, a creepy smile spreading across his short face as he looked at Zarven.

  "Zarven. Let's go." Mordrak ordered, already moving toward the camp.

  Using the cover of darkness and his dark cloak, Mordrak approached with Zarven close behind him.

  When they were just fifteen meters away, a man emerged from one of the tents near the center. He spoke with some guards, then looked toward the opposite direction from where Mordrak and Zarven were positioned.

  "Hmm. Something feels off," Raskel murmured from his position.

  Mordrak felt it too. Something wasn't right — the way that guard moved, the way the man from the tent carried himself. These weren't slave traders.

  He signaled Zarven to stop.

  They watched in silence.

  The guards were too disciplined. The tents too carefully arranged. And the Karnox — slave traders didn't travel with Karnox. They were too expensive, too difficult to control. Only organized tribes used them.

  Mordrak slowly retreated, pulling Zarven back with him into the darkness.

  Mordrak returned to Raskel's position and crouched beside him.

  "Young lord, these are not slave traders."

  "I could see that myself," Raskel replied, his eyes still fixed on the camp. "What did you notice?"

  "The Karnox are well fed and groomed — that takes money and discipline. The guards rotate positions on a scheduled rhythm. And the tents are arranged to protect something in the center." Mordrak paused. "Whatever they are guarding is in that central tent."

  Raskel said nothing for a moment. He was already thinking.

  "A camp this organized, this deep in the wasteland, in the middle of the night — they must be a tribe, and they may be hiding from someone," Raskel said. "Which means they have something valuable to hide."

  "Should we withdraw and report to the tribe chief?" Mordrak asked.

  "No." Raskel stood up. "We go in."

  Gaska pumped his fist quietly. Zarven sighed.

  Raskel walked directly toward the camp entrance — no hiding, no caution. Just the calm stride of someone who had never needed to be afraid of anything in his life.

  Zarven thought he was being quite impulsive. What if they were a major tribe from the innerlands?

  The guards reacted immediately. Three men stepped forward with weapons drawn.

  "Stop. This is a private camp of the slave traders of the Black Bear tribe. State your tribe and your purpose," the lead guard said. He was broad-shouldered and calm, but Raskel could see the tension underneath.

  "Damn. I knew it — we are never lucky. But looking at them, it seems like there are no totem warriors here," Gaska said, looking around cautiously.

  "Don't panic, Gaska. Observe first," Mordrak said. He studied them carefully, but nothing here suggested they were truly affiliated with the Black Bear tribe.

  "Oh! The Black Bear tribe, hahahaha — that's good. We are of the Shakra." Raskel said it casually. When the name of the Shakra was spoken, people were usually respectful — even though their tribe had lost a terrible war with the Black Bear tribe, their old reputation still carried weight.

  The guards exchanged a quick look.

  The lead guard didn't lower his weapon. "We have no conflict with the Shakra tribe. We ask that you move on and leave us in peace."

  Raskel smiled. It wasn't a warm smile.

  "I will, once I understand what a tribe of your size is doing in this part of the wasteland without our knowledge. This territory falls under Shakra observation. You should know that."

  A long silence.

  "Kiahahaha, it seems you don't have the recent news of what happened in the innerlands," Gaska laughed. He was certain now — these people were not Black Bear tribe.

  The guards were panicking. This person seemed to be a totem warrior. If that was true, they were in serious trouble.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Then the tent at the center of the camp opened.

  An older man walked out — tall, thin, with white markings painted across his dark skin in careful patterns. He moved slowly, not from weakness, but from the kind of deliberate calm that came from years of discipline. He wore robes that had once been fine but were now worn and patched in many places.

  He looked at Raskel with tired eyes.

  "Let them in," he said to the guards quietly.

  The guards hesitated, then stepped aside.

  They sat across from each other inside the large central tent. Lamps burned with a pale blue light — unusual, calm, almost medicinal in scent.

  "I am Elder Varuhn of the Spirit Lotus Tribe," the old man said. "And I already know why you are really here, young Shakra. You felt the manifestation in the wasteland tonight."

  Raskel said nothing, which was confirmation enough.

  "We felt it too," Varuhn continued. "We have been traveling for fifteen months. We are not here for conflict. We are healers. Mediators. We have no quarrel with anyone."

  "Then why are you impersonating slave traders of the Black Bear tribe?" Raskel asked.

  Varuhn looked at him for a long moment. He became a little wary, but he had no choice — he could already tell Raskel's level. They couldn't afford a fight here, certainly not now.

  "Because in this world, compassion is mistaken for weakness. And weakness invites predators." He said it without bitterness — just fact.

  Raskel looked around the tent slowly. Blue lamp light. Medicine bundles hanging from the tent poles. Bone instruments he didn't recognize. And then — near the back of the tent, half hidden behind a curtain — he felt the presence of a small figure.

  A child.

  A girl, around four years old, sitting cross-legged on a mat with her eyes closed. She was completely still. Around her, the faintest trace of pale light moved slowly like smoke.

  Raskel's eyes stayed on her direction for exactly one second longer than everything else.

  That was enough for Varuhn to notice.

  "Don't mind her — she is just practicing," Varuhn said, his calm voice hardening for the first time.

  "What is she?" Raskel asked.

  Varuhn was quiet for a long time.

  "She is a young girl who took shelter with us. She was a slave," he said finally.

  "I can't accept your lie anymore. Do you think I wouldn't notice who you really are? You made a grave mistake letting me in here — but it wouldn't have made a difference either way."

  Varuhn's heartbeat quickened. Did this young man have that much perception? Had he really discovered they were from the Spirit Lotus Tribe?

  "I don't understand what you're trying to say. We work with the Black Bear—"

  "Her blood," Raskel said. Not a question.

  Varuhn's expression answered before he spoke. "You know about the potion."

  "Everyone knows about the potion," Raskel said. "Lotus blood extended the life of three High Elders in the innerlands by three hundred years each. That story traveled far."

  "And so did the hunters," Varuhn said quietly.

  Raskel leaned back. He was already calculating — not cruelly, but with the cold efficiency of someone who saw the world as a series of resources and positions.

  A girl with Lotus Totem blood. A partially destroyed totem spirit. A tribe on the edge of extinction. And a manifestation in the wasteland tonight that had rattled his father enough to send his third son personally.

  Two things in one night. Opportunity didn't knock twice.

  "I will be honest with you, Elder," Raskel said. "I came here thinking you were slave traders. You are not. You are something more interesting." He stood up. "I am taking the girl."

  The tent went very still.

  Varuhn stood slowly.

  "Young lord of the Shakra." His voice was quiet but carried a weight that filled the tent. "I have lived long enough to know when a decision cannot be changed. But do not think it will be easy to take her from us. I have my own way to make you pay greatly if you try." He reached into his robes and produced a scroll — left behind by one of their shamans long ago. "Her blood will not be turned into a potion. You will not reduce her to a resource."

  Raskel said nothing. He only looked at him with pity.

  Outside the tent, something changed.

  A pressure dropped over the camp like a sudden temperature shift. Mordrak's hand went to his weapon instinctively.

  A man stepped out from between two tents — broad, heavyset, with the same white markings as Varuhn but fresher, newer. His breathing was slightly labored. His eyes carried the dull glow of a totem warrior pushing beyond his limits.

  "Elder Varuhn." His voice was strained. "Step back."

  "Soru, don't—" Varuhn started.

  "Step back," Soru repeated without looking at the elder.

  He was looking at Raskel.

  "A Shakra comes to take from the Lotus Tribe again." Soru's voice was low and tight with something that had been building for a long time. "Not today."

  Gaska laughed from behind Raskel. "Look at him — he can barely stand. His totem is half dead and he wants to fight."

  "Gaska." Mordrak's warning was sharp.

  But Gaska wasn't wrong. Anyone with eyes could see it — Soru's power was flickering. Like a lamp running out of oil. The partial destruction of the Lotus Totem had taken its toll on every warrior who carried its mark. Some had lost their abilities entirely. Soru had held on longer than most, but the cost was visible in every breath he took.

  And yet he stepped forward anyway.

  Raskel looked at him with something that might have been respect — if respect from Raskel was something you ever wanted to receive.

  "You can't win this," Raskel said simply.

  "I know," Soru replied. "Fight me anyway."

  It was not a long fight.

  But it was not nothing either.

  Soru moved with the controlled grace of someone who had spent decades training, throwing a slash toward Raskel.

  Raskel dodged by side-stepping to the right. Soru changed the trajectory of the slash in the same direction — but Raskel was one step ahead. He evaded by ducking and followed with a punch to Soru's ribs. A crack was heard.

  "Ugh." Soru grunted in pain.

  Soru kicked at Raskel, but he deflected it with his arms and returned a kick toward Soru's stomach.

  It landed. Soru flew and crashed hard on the ground. The toll of using a totem power that was already fading was severe.

  The young girl, who had moved to the tent entrance, put her hands together and prayed. A sliver of power came from her and entered Soru — giving him a brief boost.

  He stood up and sprinted toward Raskel with greater speed than before. A horizontal slash missed Raskel by inches. Things were getting serious. Raskel drew his short sword and parried Soru's following attacks — a deflection here, a counter there, the pale blue glow of Lotus energy flaring in bursts around Soru's arms.

  But every burst cost him. Each flare of power left him slower and heavier.

  Raskel was patient. He didn't overwhelm immediately. He tested, watched, and measured. Ambitious people rarely wasted energy.

  Then Soru's power flickered badly — a moment of darkness where the blue light simply went out.

  Raskel moved.

  It was over quickly after that.

  Soru hit the ground hard, breathing through his teeth, one arm pinned. He didn't give up — he kept trying to rise — but his body had nothing left to give.

  "Enough." Raskel released him and stepped back. "You fought well for a man running on empty."

  Soru looked up at him with eyes full of fury and grief.

  The guards had moved forward during the fight, but Mordrak and the others had positioned themselves between them and Raskel without a word needing to be said.

  "Good job holding on this long, Soru. Now it's my turn to help." Varuhn opened the scroll. What emerged was a projection of a Lotus flower — large, radiating a divine presence.

  Raskel and his team were bound by that force.

  They struggled to move. The flower grew vines and they began attacking — wrapping around the Shakra warriors, pulling tight.

  "Everyone hold — don't back down! Attack them all!" Mordrak shouted. He launched a vicious attack toward one of the guards, his fingers shaped like a blade. It tore through the man's arm.

  Raskel dodged many vines. Three of his men were bound now — only he and two others remained free.

  "Do you think calling on this broken manifestation will stop me?" Raskel shouted at Varuhn.

  "We are leaving. Take only the essential things," Varuhn said calmly, already moving. "Soru — take her."

  They loaded the Karnox and mounted quickly.

  "Elder." One of the younger guards came to Varuhn's side. "What do we do?"

  "Some of you stay here and buy us time. The rest follow me," Varuhn ordered.

  Varuhn looked back one last time at where Raskel was still fighting through the remnants of their totem projection. It would buy them a little time — not much, but enough.

  He had seen many things in his long life. He had watched his tribe decline from thousands to dozens. He had carried the weight of a dying totem spirit for twenty years. He had made peace with most of it.

  But tonight something else had happened — something that had nothing to do with Raskel or the Shakra.

  That manifestation in the wasteland — the two great serpents rising into the sky — Varuhn had felt it the moment it happened. And unlike most people in that settlement who had prayed to it out of hope or fear, Varuhn had recognized something in it.

  Not the tribe. Not the totem name. But the quality of the power.

  Something ancient. Something that had no business being in this wasteland.

  "Elder. Which direction do we go?" Soru asked.

  Varuhn was quiet for a long moment.

  "We follow the serpent," he said finally.