The heavy footsteps halted outside the tent. The animal-skin curtain was violently flung aside. A-Lie's towering figure stepped inside, carrying the heavy stench of blood and the chill of the night.
He did not head for Gu Liang in the corner, but strode directly before him. Without a word, he seized Gu Liang's arm and dragged him roughly out of the tent. Gu Liang's struggles were futile against Alei's overwhelming strength. The Swiss Army knife fell to the ground in the chaos.
At the camp's center, a massive bonfire blazed fiercely, its flickering light illuminating bronze-hued faces. Many beastmen gathered here, celebrating today's bountiful hunt. But as Alei dragged Gu Liang into view, the clamor gradually subsided.
Beside the fire, an old leopard orc stood waiting, his face painted with eerie war paint and adorned with bone ornaments. He held a metal rod, its tip glowing red-hot. Several solemn tribal elders stood nearby, along with Chief Mo Zong—the male with the old claw scars on his face—who had come upon hearing the news.Their gazes were calm and detached, as if witnessing an ordinary event.
Gu Liang instantly grasped what was about to happen, and overwhelming terror seized him. He struggled desperately backward, his voice shrill with fear: "No! Don't! Let me go!"
Resistance was futile. A Lie's arms clamped down like iron pincers, pinning him to the icy ground. The old beastman began chanting incantations as he performed an eerie dance, the glowing red branding iron in his hand reflecting a dangerous light in the flames.
The Black Mane chieftain and elders watched in silence. This was the tribe's custom—a confirmation of ownership. Even the "property" of an outsider as powerful as Alei must undergo the ancient ritual.
A wave of scorching heat washed over him. Gu Liang screamed in despair, tears blurring his vision.
"Sizzle—"
The excruciating pain of scorched flesh erupted below his left collarbone. Gu Liang let out a piercing scream, nearly fainting on the spot. The air thickened with the dreadful stench of burning flesh, the searing agony penetrating deep into his bones.
A Lie released his grip. Gu Liang collapsed to the ground, curled up and trembling violently, his forehead covered in cold sweat. The searing pain from the brand beneath his collarbone was a symbol of ownership—a mark of shame that permanently branded him to this brutal world.
The elder beastman completed the ritual and stepped aside. The elders gave slight nods, seemingly acknowledging the mark's legitimacy. Chief Mo Zong's gaze lingered briefly on Gu Liang's pain-contorted form before turning to A Lie. He nodded once and walked away.
The surrounding orcs resumed their clamor, as if the ritual had merely been a necessary formality. Someone handed Ale a bowl of murky liquid, seemingly as a gesture of congratulations.
A Lie accepted the bowl but did not drink immediately. He looked down at Gu Liang trembling on the ground, a fleeting, unreadable emotion flickering in his golden pupils before his usual coldness returned.
He bent down, hoisting Gu Liang onto his shoulder without gentleness, ignoring the pained cry that erupted from the contact with the brand. He strode back toward the tent.
When he was tossed back onto the animal hide, Gu Liang had stopped trembling. He curled up, his face buried in the fur, motionless. The brand beneath his collarbone burned like fire, each breath bringing fresh agony.
A Lie stood at the tent entrance, his tall, dark silhouette silhouetted against the firelight. He glanced back at Gu Liang, uttering a short, sharp syllable that seemed to warn him to behave, then lowered the curtain and left.
Outside the tent, the tribe's celebratory clamor grew louder; inside, only the sound of stifled breathing and the lingering scent of scorched flesh remained.
Gu Liang slowly raised his head. The tear tracks on his face had dried, leaving only a cold, blank expanse. He reached out, his fingertips lightly touching the searing brand. The intense pain made him jerk his hand back.
In the darkness, his eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light, finally settling on the Swiss Army knife in the corner.
The blade reflected a cold glint in the light of the bonfire seeping through the cracks of the door curtain.
Hatred, tempered by the searing agony, sharpened its edge.