Somewhere deep in the mountains, on a wind-sheltered open space.
The power of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers had diminished by nearly ninety percent. The population of the Mountaineer tribe had also suffered almost ninety percent casualties.
After all, the headquarters of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers was located within their tribe. Archdruid Ilarode intended to use this advantage to secure privileges and gain for his people, but instead, this decision had first brought disaster upon them.
But that was not the worst of it. The most serious blow was that most of the liaisons for the small tribes at headquarters had perished.
Without those liaisons, and after the raid—including the Mountaineer tribe among the five leading tribes—the entire alliance headquarters was forced to relocate suddenly, moving to a safer place and merging into a larger settlement for survival.
In this situation, it became nearly impossible for the small tribes to reach the five main tribes or keep in contact with alliance headquarters.
Overnight, the entire mountain region had reverted to the state it was in before the founding of the alliance: the small tribes, once again isolated and helpless, could no longer defend themselves under Montport's rampage, and in the end, faced extinction.
The scale of the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers had now shrunk by nearly ninety percent. This alliance, founded with the goal of protecting allies, had turned out to be utterly useless when its allies truly faced life-and-death crises.
Now, in the Alliance's new headquarters—a huge clearing surrounded by fences—one could see rows of square wooden cabins and round white canvas tents set up.
Buildings of all styles mingled together, making the place look nothing like a true tribe or alliance, but rather a makeshift refugee camp cobbled together.
Yet there was no other option; in this bitter winter, people needed somewhere to live. The ability to piece together even these provisional shelters was already no small feat.
At the entrance to the camp, Ilarode watched the scene inside, worry written all over his face.
He knew these crude houses could never resist true winter cold. If another heavy snow fell, who knew how many would freeze to death?
And there was nothing he could do. The wilds were heavily polluted; even if he wasn't as sensitive as the satyrs, his own strength was noticeably fading.
It had only been a little over ten days, but he seemed to have aged ten years, with a face wrinkled like tree bark and an overall air of exhaustion.
Fortunately, he hadn't completely collapsed. At least, the five leading tribes of the alliance had preserved their core strength, with only the expendable members lost.
Moreover, the five tribes were still relatively united, determined to endure this hardship together.
With that in mind, Ilarode turned his gaze elsewhere.
There, on a makeshift dais, a busty, broad-hipped, black-furred female minotaur was waving her arm energetically, rallying the minotaurs below:
"No matter what difficulties we encounter, don't be afraid! Face them bravely! The best way to overcome terror is to confront it! Perseverance is victory! Be strong, minotaurs!"
The minotaurs shouted in a chorus below, like her fervent believers: "Be strong! Minotaurs!"
At this, Ilarode's eyes filled with comfort and relief.
He knew who the female minotaur was: a woman whom Torun had once rescued from a doomed tribe.
Now she was called Ines Highmountain.
Perhaps because her looks and figure matched minotaur ideals, she was immensely popular among the Highmountain tribe. In these grim times, she had stepped up, rallying the enduring and cold-resistant minotaurs to take on more responsibilities.
She had all the bearing of a selfless female leader.
Ilarode had heard that Torun's father—and many in the Highmountain tribe—hoped she would marry Torun. Such leadership and rallying power had once belonged only to a chief.
Torun's attitude was ambiguous, but his father admired Ines's ability to inspire others, and was supposedly working diligently to arrange the match.
In the past, Ilarode would have felt uneasy and tried to stop the marriage, intending to wed his own daughter to Torun—after all, that was her true wish, and Torun was the future, unquestioned leader of the Highmountain tribe.
If the two married, Torun and his tribe would be entirely loyal to Ilarode's leadership, ensuring his own secure position.
But now, Ilarode's only wish was for peace and that no more lives be lost.
As for who would lead the Alliance of the Mountain Purifiers, let the next generation compete freely.
After all, the only hope for his kin's survival now lay with these minotaurs. As for his own rule—let that be challenged if it must...
He glanced toward the edge of the new encampment. In the biting wind, neither humans, half-orcs, nor werebears could work as usual.
Only the satyrs and minotaurs could continue hauling lumber and building shelters—but the satyrs were too few, so the minotaurs had become the sole mainstay of the commoners' hope for surviving the winter.
Meanwhile, having just finished healing a few wounded minotaurs and now resting, the Satyr Matriarch, Willo Green Vines, was also observing Ines's valor.
Even in such intense winter, the Matriarch wore only a long robe the color of withered leaves, wrapping her supple, curvaceous figure completely, showing not a hint of bare skin.
But the robe could conceal nothing but her flesh; her impressive curves were unmistakable beneath the fabric. When the wind picked up, the robe clung to her body, outlining her chest, waist, shapely hips, and even her thighs—enough to set anyone's blood racing.
She watched Ines with admiration, then nudged her only daughter, Adele Green Vines, at her side: "Just look how popular she is! You should learn from her, talk to people, interact more, stop hiding in your tent all the time and avoiding social contact!"
The young satyr girl was slightly different from her mother; her hair had a soft pinkish hue rather than pure white. The greatest difference, however, was her figure—perhaps all her nutrients went to her brain, so even at her age, she was considered thin even among human girls.
Let alone satyrs.
Upon hearing her mother's words, Adele lifted her eyes, long lashes reflecting the morning light, glancing at Ines on the platform with a slight pout.
She thought to herself, Mother, you have no idea—her popularity comes from her sleeping around. Though she's officially Torun's fiancée, she's slept with almost every warrior in the Highmountain tribe, sometimes even several at once.
You don't know how filthy and obscene the things those bulls say about her behind her back are, yet here you are urging me to emulate her...
She kept such thoughts to herself, deciding not to explain.
At last, she simply pouted, looking quite listless. "Not interested. I'm not going to learn from her."
Willo sighed and persisted: "I know you're smart and have your own ideas. But Adele, no one is perfect—everyone is a sapient being, nobody has less brain than someone else."
"Others always have virtues you lack. In such cases, we must learn humbly to avoid making mistakes..."
Adele wanted to retort that her behavior served ulterior motives, begging her mother not to make her learn from that example. She had the urge to reveal everything she knew, but knowing her mother's nature, she suppressed it and said, "There's nothing worth learning from her. I could do far better myself just by using spells."
Willo wanted to continue with advice, such as how spells shouldn't be overused, and how those temporarily affected would later resent her, but just then, Adele turned away, raising her voice: "You're so annoying! I'm going over there!"
The Satyr Matriarch's eyes went wide in exasperation: "I just said a few words, and you already find me annoying?"
But Adele paid her no heed and hurried away. Willo stood there, stamped her foot angrily, but soon—the gentle side of her temperament returning—she calmed down and fell into a long, thoughtful silence, eventually sighing deeply.
The fault's not entirely hers. Some of it's mine—I need to reflect.
Lately, I've been so busy with external affairs, I've neglected her.
These last days, I've dragged her all over, healing people with spellcasting, working long hours, and always speaking to her with a scolding tone.
Adele holds some resentment, which is understandable for a child her age.
She's already exceptional—for goodness' sake, how many girls her age have mastered 5th-level spells and willingly follow their mothers around, saving others?
I have to accept my own errors—I can't blame her alone...
Maybe I should make time to let her nurse again. As a little one, a good feeding always soothed her when she cried...
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