Clay tilted his head slightly as he stared at Borzoi, his expression calm but carrying a faint trace of curiosity that slowly turned into mild impatience.
"What?"
His voice was steady.
"You don't want to?"
Borzoi immediately lowered his head, his posture respectful, his tone careful.
"It is not that, Young Warchief."
He paused briefly, gathering his thoughts before continuing.
"You have already changed the Tattoo. The moment you became the Warchief and received the acknowledgment of the tribe's spirit, the authority has already been established. Naturally, those who share the same bloodline cannot raise their hands against those you declare as your people. It is not merely a rule… it is a restriction embedded within the tribe itself."
Clay blinked once.
Then nodded.
"I see. That's good."
He turned his gaze toward the distance, as if already thinking several steps ahead, and then spoke again without hesitation.
