The sun shines brightly overhead, its light sharp and pale, reflecting off a frozen lake that lies still and glassy at the heart of the clearing.
A chilling wind sweeps across the ice, cutting through the air and rattling the tall trees that surround the lake on all sides.
Their trunks rise straight and dense, branches heavy with green leaves that whisper softly as the wind passes through them, an uneasy contrast to the cold locked beneath the ice.
Near the lake's edge, a group of burly men waits in silence.
Their bodies are wrapped in thick animal hides, fur collars pulled high against the wind, breath fogging faintly in the air.
Axes rest against broad shoulders, spearheads glinting dully in the sunlight, their stances relaxed but ready, like hunters accustomed to sudden violence.
From the forest opposite them, movement stirs.
Dark figures emerge one by one between the trees.
Merin steps out first, his pace unhurried, eyes calm and unreadable.
Behind him follow his guards, all clad in thick black robes that seem to swallow light rather than reflect it, their movements disciplined, silent, and precise.
The wind tugs at their garments as they advance toward the frozen lake, black figures crossing a field of white, while silence tightens between the two waiting groups like a drawn bowstring.
Merin's gaze settles on the older man standing among the burly figures in animal hides.
The man is broad-shouldered, his posture grounded and steady, breath slow despite the cold.
Merin senses it immediately—the refined strength hidden beneath the man's rugged exterior.
Outer Refining Realm.
Just like him.
This must be Mosa.
Leader of the Mammoth Tribe.
Across the lake, Mosa's expression hardens the moment the Duan Family emerges from the forest.
His eyes linger briefly on Merin, then sharpen when he senses the cultivation beneath the young man's composed exterior.
A noble.
An Outer Refining Realm warrior.
And clearly not here by accident.
Mosa steps forward, boots crunching softly against frost-hardened ground.
"Lord Duan," he says, voice deep and resonant, "finally we meet."
Merin smiles faintly, offering a courteous nod.
"Leader Mosa," he replies, "thank you for the invitation."
Mosa's face relaxes slightly.
He lifts one hand and gestures toward the frozen lake, its surface gleaming like polished stone beneath the sun.
"Lord Duan," he says, "shall we take you to our tribe?"
Merin's eyes narrow just a fraction.
"Leader Mosa," he says evenly, "are you certain you will still take us to your tribe after what happened with the Black Dog Gang?"
At the mention of the name, a ripple of reaction passes through the Mammoth Tribe warriors.
Because of the Black Dog Gang, the Mammoth Tribe had been forced into alliance with the Duan Family.
Blood had been spilt.
Debts had been carved deep.
Mosa waves a hand dismissively.
"That matter is settled," he says. "I trust you."
Merin studies him for a heartbeat, then nods.
Without further words, he steps onto the frozen lake.
The ice does not crack.
Mosa walks beside him, their steps measured, their guards following behind in silence.
The lake stretches wide beneath their feet, frozen solid, wind skimming across its surface in thin, icy breaths.
After a while, Mosa speaks again.
"Lord Duan," he asks casually, "can you tell me the Song Kingdom's purpose in sending you here?"
Merin does not hesitate.
"They heard that among the mountain tribes," he says, "some are preparing to attack again. I was sent to stop it."
Mosa nods slowly.
"I've heard rumours," he says. "But I also heard that the Xiao Family is involved."
Merin's eyes flash.
"What makes you say this?" he asks.
Mosa's voice remains calm.
"I have seen Xiao Family members," he says, "meeting with the Meng Tribe, the Corpse Dog Tribe, and the Evil Serpent Tribe."
Merin's steps slow for a fraction of a second.
His expression remains unchanged, but his mind sharpens.
Those three tribes.
From the information sent by the court, they have all been moving restlessly, gathering strength, stirring discontent.
So the Xiao Family is involved.
What are they planning?
Rebellion?
Merin's thoughts turn cold.
If they truly intend to rebel, then perhaps they only need a gentle push in the right direction.
He has already learned the cultivation methods of the human world.
Faith is power.
And the fastest way to gather faith is conquest.
Conquer with force.
Build order atop the ruins.
Then harvest belief.
The idea settles in his mind like a blade sliding into its sheath.
They continue walking.
Minutes pass as they cross the frozen lake and reach the far shore, where jagged rocks rise steeply, capped with snow and rimed with ice.
The air grows thinner and colder as they climb, frozen mist drifting from unseen cracks in the stone.
Halfway up the mountain, Mosa veers toward a narrow rock face.
A cave entrance reveals itself—hidden, carefully concealed, guarded by Mammoth Tribe warriors standing motionless in the cold.
Mosa signals them aside.
They enter.
The cave swallows light quickly, the temperature dropping as stone walls close in.
Their footsteps echo softly through the tunnel, breath fogging in the dimness.
The passage slopes downward, then curves upward again, winding through the mountain's heart.
After some distance, faint daylight appears ahead.
They emerge on the other side.
Before them lies a small valley, sheltered by the mountain itself, wind muted, snow thinner, and signs of habitation scattered across the land.
Merin's eyes take it all in.
Following Mosa through the narrow paths of the valley, he enters the heart of the Mammoth Tribe, where stone huts and hide-covered structures circle a vast open ground. At its centre rises the tribe's totem.
Merin stops.
His gaze fixes on the massive mammoth skeleton towering above the clearing. The bones are ancient, weathered smooth by time, yet faint golden veins run through them like dormant embers, pulsing softly beneath the surface. They are not light, not quite energy either, but something deeper—something older.
Power.
Faith.
Law.
The tribe treats the totem with reverence, passing it in silence, heads lowered. Merin feels it too. A subtle pressure presses against his senses, restrained, watchful, as though the skeleton itself is aware of every living thing around it.
The feast that follows is loud and warm, a sharp contrast to the cold outside. Fires crackle, meat roasts over open flames, and thick brews are poured into heavy cups. The Mammoth Tribe eats heartily, laughter rolling through the valley like thunder. Merin eats with them, drinks with them, listening more than he speaks.
Later, when the fires burn low, he sits with Mosa and speaks of Maggon Mountain. They talk of its passes, its dangers, the unrest among nearby tribes, and the shifting balance that has begun to ripple through the region. Mosa speaks cautiously, weighing each word, while Merin listens with calm focus, committing every detail to memory.
Eventually, the tribe settles.
Fires are doused. Voices fade. One by one, the valley sinks into sleep beneath a sky scattered with stars.
When silence fully takes hold, something stirs.
From Merin's body, a small, translucent figure slips free.
'The Dream Gu'.
It flutters silently through the air, wings beating without sound as it drifts out of the room and into the night. It passes above patrolling warriors, their senses dulled by sleep, and glides effortlessly toward the central clearing.
Through the dream gu's eyes, Merin watches the mammoth totem.
Up close, its presence is overwhelming. Spirituality seeps from the skeleton in slow, ancient breaths, thick with the weight of countless generations. Merin knows instinctively—one wrong move, one careless ripple of intent, and the totem will awaken, sounding an alarm that will rouse the entire tribe.
Carefully, delicately, he acts.
Through the dream gu, he weaves a dream spell, letting it sink into the totem like mist into stone. The spell does not bind or suppress—it soothes. It carries echoes of slumber, memories of rest carried across ages.
Minutes pass.
The golden veins dim.
The pressure eases.
The totem sleeps.
The dream gu descends and settles onto the mammoth skeleton, and through it, Merin's consciousness deepens. He enters his spirit space, where the vast silhouette of the mammoth looms once more, immense and unyielding.
He begins to comprehend.
Strength.
Not brute force, but the principle beneath it. The way weight is borne. The way power flows through bone and sinew. The way an existence stands firm against time itself.
Runes form.
One by one, they ignite within his spirit space, carving themselves into being. The law he touches is incomplete, fragmented by death and erosion, yet what remains is enough.
He completes what he can.
Not by filling the gaps, but by understanding their shape.
When Merin opens his eyes, pale sunlight is spilling into the room. Dust motes drift lazily through the beams as the tribe begins to wake outside. Voices rise, low and unhurried. Fires are rekindled. Footsteps crunch softly on frost-touched ground.
Merin sits cross-legged, calm and composed.
He taps a finger lightly against his knee.
From the mammoth totem, he has comprehended fragments of the Law of Strength.
And with that understanding comes clarity.
Totems are not mere symbols.
They are descendants of innate beasts born at the beginning of the world, creatures that existed alongside the laws themselves. Even in death, traces of those laws remain etched into their bones. Over millennia, the faith of their tribes nourishes those traces, granting the skeletons a form of spirituality.
That spirituality, in turn, bestows power upon believers.
A cycle.
Faith feeds law.
Law grants strength.
Merin understands now.
At his current level—the Outer Qi Realm—the law itself cannot yet be used. True application will only become possible after he reaches the Soul Awakening Realm.
But that does not mean comprehension is wasted.
On the contrary.