Chapter 423: Worshipping the Dragon
Aen had already defeated thirteen Tier Four warriors in succession. The one he now faced, the chieftain of the tribe named Luke of the Icefang Clan, was the only Tier Five among them.
Of course, in this Exile Land, which was even more primitive than the Northern Regions once were, there was no formal concept of "tiers." Their recognition of status came solely through battle.
For instance, those thirteen Tier Four warriors were called “Claws,” while the chieftain, Luke, was called “Fang.”
The name “Orc” was derived from the Icefield Wolves.
They believed that those who lived on this land needed to live as the most ferocious creatures here did—the Icefield Wolves—banding together in packs. Only then could they survive this savage land.
Thus, they used the wolves’ sharpest claws and fangs to praise their warriors.
In a way, their wolf worship bore a resemblance to the wolf-centered culture in the Northern Trials.
This was also somewhat of a testament to their origins from the North.
Of course, that was something Zeke needed to consider when writing his books. As for Aen, what he had to focus on now was knocking Luke to the ground and stomping his face into the dirt.
Aen let out a furious roar, like a frost-breathing dragon's bellow. The leather armor on his body had already been torn during battle, and he ripped it off, tossing it to the ground. His skin, flushed with blood-red hues, showed no sign of injury—almost like the only remnant of his once-merchant identity.
His opponent, the “Fang” of the Icefang Clan—Luke—had also torn off his upper garment. His bluish skin was covered with scars, and rather than resembling an Icefield Wolf, he looked more like an upright-standing Snowfield Berserk Bear. Compared to him, Aen seemed more than just a head shorter.
Luke’s roar was akin to a bear’s. Saliva surged from between his menacing fangs, and his eyes blazed with frenzied crimson.
Luke launched a fierce assault, clenching his fists and hurling them at Aen with blistering speed.
In this resource-scarce Exile Land, forget about refining minerals—there wasn't even a spark of metallurgy. Only Orcs below Tier Four used stone tools as weapons. To those above Tier Four, their bodies were their most powerful weapons.
Their fists could shatter mountains and crack stone. Even the most robust Snowfield Berserk Bear would have its bones pulverized by a single punch from Luke.
Thus, even a fellow Tier Five like Aen could only dodge.
But in battle, constant evasion could only lead to eventual defeat.
Even Aen, with his merchant’s background, understood that much.
Moreover, a haughty roar seemed to echo in his heart, as if even his soul was dissatisfied with his evasive maneuvers.
So Aen stopped dodging. He stomped hard on the ground, raised his left elbow across to block—forcefully taking Luke’s punch head-on.
The cracking sound was like the groan of bones under strain. Pain stabbed through Aen's arm, a vivid reminder of just how strong Luke’s punch had been.
Aen’s eyes turned blood-red under the pain. He growled and swung his right fist fiercely, slamming it into Luke’s face.
A harsh crunch followed, as Aen’s knuckles screamed from the impact.
To Luke, if his fists were his strongest weapons, then his body was his strongest shield.
Yet now, that shield had met its most formidable challenge.
That cracking sound wasn’t just Aen’s bones—Luke had lost a tooth from that punch.
The two separated. Aen clenched his left hand again, testing it. He could feel some fractures, but he was sure his hand could still clench and strike.
Luke shook his head slightly and spat out a mouthful of blood.
Though Aen’s punch had knocked out one of his sharp fangs, it only made Luke’s fighting spirit burn hotter.
He charged again.
Even though Luke could tell from that punch that Aen—despite being smaller—possessed even greater physical strength than him…
So what? Orcs had no right to retreat if they wished to survive in this brutal land.
And having come into direct contact, Aen too felt it—his body, blessed by the Will of the Northland, seemed even stronger in physical endurance than Luke’s.
This time, he didn’t dodge either. Like Luke, he clenched both fists and charged straight ahead.
Their fists collided, letting out a deafening thud that left ears ringing. Their bodies clashed—though Aen’s frame was smaller, the collision resembled two small mountains crashing into each other.
The frozen ground beneath their feet was crushed by the battle, then melted by the searing heat of their combat spirit into a muddy mire, splashing up with every step they took.
Around them, the Orcs roared with primal cheers, rallying behind their “Fang.”
The thirteen “Claws” that Aen had already defeated clawed open the skin on their chests with their own fingernails, letting blood flow—perhaps a form of raw emotional release, or a kind of primitive ritual.
The atmosphere burned ever hotter.
Aen hadn’t brought the other tribes he had conquered with him.
In the Exile Land, traveling in too large a group would only invite misfortune.
Hunger, for example.
So after subduing each tribe, he left them behind to await his return.
Aen had said, “Before I return, you are not to leave your tribe’s bounds by more than ten li. If the food in your tribe runs out, even if you starve, cannibalism is forbidden. That is my order. If you disobey, you shall face death.”
“Your bodies will be slain and cast out, gnawed upon by snow mice. Your souls shall not return to the earth, nor ascend to the Hall of Heroes. You shall be exiled upon the land, ceaselessly tormented by the cold winds for eternity.”
This was, of course, a scare tactic Aen had devised with Zeke. After all, people were not always afraid of death—sometimes death was release.
But if death meant eternal soul-suffering, perhaps fear could be instilled.
Though this strategy ensured freedom of movement for Aen and Zeke, it also made the cheering for Aen notably less enthusiastic in times like these.
So Zeke quickly documented the behavior of the thirteen defeated “Claws,” shut his book, then threw off the snow bear pelt he wore—revealing a body that still emitted wisps of white steam.
His physique was not much weaker than Aen’s. In fact, due to his pure Northern bloodline, he looked even stronger.
He stretched out his arms and legs, bouncing rhythmically up and down, then sang aloud in a resonant voice:
“Ismir, Northern Dragon, wings outstretched, shielding the heavens, Dragon’s Roar, sundering the earth—!”
His voice and presence immediately overpowered the Orcs’ cheers.
They couldn’t help but shift their gaze from the battle to Zeke, watching him dance that wild, frenzied dance.
They thought, Such a powerful Aen must be a tribe’s “Fang,” and that weak-looking one must be the shaman who serves him.
But seeing Zeke’s ferocious dance—one that lost nothing in intensity compared to the duel in the center—they realized this “Shaman” was not weak at all. In fact, he was powerful—no weaker than a “Fang.”
However, one of the Orcs soon stepped forward to break Zeke’s brief dominance over the atmosphere.
He wore a wolf pelt, hunched over, and looked smaller and older than the other Orcs present.
His appearance drew the attention of several Orcs.
Zeke instantly understood—this man was the Shaman of the tribe.
Shamans in these Orc tribes held a rather unique status. Typically, they were the eldest members of the tribe.
They held the right to conduct rituals.
And to live to such an age in this harsh environment—whether or not one possessed physical strength—meant they surely had enough wisdom.
Such wisdom helped the Orcs survive, and at times, it was even more important than the bravery of the “Fangs.”
But this was the Exile Land, where only primal violence ruled. In some tribes, Shamans who had grown old and feeble in strength were not necessarily held in high regard.
However, judging from the reactions of the surrounding Orcs, this particular Shaman seemed to be held in high esteem.
At the very least, the thirteen “Claws” cast respectful and trusting glances at him.
Under everyone's gaze, the Shaman removed his Icefield Wolf pelt, revealing scars all over his body.
These scars seemed to be proof that, before aging, he too had been a powerful warrior—at least no weaker than those “Claws.”
This Shaman, with his still-sturdy frame, let out a roar at Zeke, then began dancing wildly, his voice howling like a wolf.
Zeke could not understand the language.
But he knew the dance was a kind of ritual. Perhaps the Shaman viewed his own dance and chant as a form of ceremonial worship and wished to counter Zeke’s performance with one of his own.
An idea formed in Zeke’s mind.
He wanted to shatter their faith.
Even if what he danced and chanted now was merely the method of bards in the Northern Regions.
Moreover, it was a method he had learned from Greenwood.
Using rhythmic body movements and vocal modulation paired with lyrics, one could amplify abstract imagery.
Yet Zeke believed this method of communication might also be a means to collapse the Orcs’ faith—and replace it with a new one.
Thus, Zeke's actions became increasingly aggressive, like a dragon soaring through the sky, the words from his mouth resembling the language of dragons.
This forced the ritualist mimicking the wolf-hunting steps to sweat profusely. Even the Exile Land’s chill could not suppress it.
They had seen a dragon before.
Years ago, a colossal being had flown over their heads. The sheer force it radiated, even from a single glance, made their souls feel frozen.
In fact, just from that massive creature flying overhead, more than ten people in their tribe died.
It was the most deaths they had experienced since the founding of their tribe.
What’s more, those who died were indoors, wrapped in furs. Yet when their bodies were dragged from beneath the hides, they were frozen stiff, as though turned to ice.
So the Shaman’s movements gradually slowed, fear creeping into his trembling steps. The surrounding Orcs also seemed to shiver, their cheers for their “Fang” growing quieter.
In their eyes, Zeke’s figure overlapped more and more with the dragon that had once flown over their tribe.
How could Icefield Wolves that had to huddle together on the ground ever hope to challenge a proud dragon in the sky?
Eventually, the Shaman’s movements stopped. He closed his eyes and collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.
Zeke understood that he had won the battle of faith.
Though he felt the victory came too easily, he silently raised the bardic chanting method’s importance in his heart.
He believed it could be used for deification.
He believed in the Lord, and he yearned for the Heavenly Kingdom on Earth as promised by the Lord.
But he also knew that the Lord’s faith could not be practiced in the Northland.
So while both he and Aen were devout Believers of the Lord, he dared not openly display this faith.
As Aen had once said, they were the ruling class, and their words and actions would influence the lower classes. But those beneath them would further distort and teach these behaviors to the commoners.
Thus, only those they approved of would be taught the true faith of the Lord.
For instance, Aen’s adopted daughter—Adela.
Every time Zeke looked at that girl, he couldn’t help but lament, Why isn’t that girl Aen’s blood?
Still, if the Lord’s faith could not be embraced by the lower classes of the Northland, then another faith had to be created.
People must not live without faith.
Faith, Zeke believed, was the root of Greenwood’s strength.
So all these years, Zeke had been searching for a faith suitable for the Northlanders.
Now, he felt he had found it.
Just as he had chanted—The Northern Dragon, Ismir.
Outside the battlefield, the clash of faith had ended. On the battlefield, it seemed the two warriors had also decided the victor.
Luke’s fighting style was pure savagery—mostly from wrestling beasts, with no form of heritage.
Or rather, in this brutal Exile Land, few things were preserved well enough to be passed on.
Aen’s fighting style, however, had been taught by the strongest warriors of the Northland. These warriors were experts in fighting all kinds of enemies. While Aen might not have surpassed them in skill, surpassing these untrained Orcs was expected.
To the Orcs, their usual enemies were the beasts of the Exile Land.
So once Aen realized that his own physical strength surpassed Luke’s, he ended the battle with a final elbow strike to Luke’s chest.
Had Luke not possessed such thick skin and muscle, that blow would likely have shattered his heart.
Although Aen had defeated Luke, Luke’s ferocious counterattack before his loss still left two rows of wounds on Aen’s upper arm.
The three puncture holes among those wounds were especially noticeable.
They were inflicted by Luke’s last desperate bite after taking the elbow strike.
He had nearly torn a chunk of flesh from Aen.
He was supposed to have four sharp fangs.
But Aen had already knocked one out—only three remained.
“Huff—” Aen let out a slow breath, staring at Luke, who knelt in the muddy pit.
Luke clutched his chest, exactly where Aen’s elbow had struck.
“You lost. This tribe is mine now. The life and death of everyone here will be determined by me. My command is the mission you must carry out,” Aen declared.
Luke only panted heavily, looking up at Aen with a twisted expression, saying nothing for the moment.
Aen, thinking he was still unconvinced, prepared to continue fighting—until he saw the look freeze on Luke’s face.
All around them, the previously quiet Orcs had fallen to their knees, bowing continuously and chanting in rough voices:
“Northern Dragon—Ismir—!”
Having just finished the battle, Aen was confused.
He looked toward Zeke.
Zeke was merely staring blankly at his back.
Sensing Aen’s gaze, Zeke lifted his hand and pointed behind him.
Aen turned around—and saw countless streams of light streaking across the sky.
“I willingly submit to you, and revere you as my god.”
Behind him, Luke’s voice no longer seemed that important.