"Good morning, Tribe Leader."
"Morning, Tribe Leader."
The words echoed through the camp as Ge Guang, now the newly crowned leader, strode through the bustling grounds.
His presence commanded attention, but not for the reasons one might expect.
His gaze swept over the gathered tribe members—some with silent reverence, others with the faintest traces of fear—and he nodded in acknowledgment to those who greeted him.
A week ago, the old tribe leader and the Healing Gu Master had perished under mysterious circumstances while attempting to heal him.
Poisoned in the very process of saving him, they had given their lives, and Ge Guang had walked away unscathed—alive, thanks to their help.
Now, he was the Tribe Leader. But not in the way they thought.
Fang Yuan, wearing the skin of Ge Guang, remained untouched by those greetings. His eyes—cold, calculating—met the gaze of each passerby as he moved, the whispers of the camp falling silent as he approached.
As his footsteps echoed on the dirt path, one of the elders, his face lined with caution, stepped forward. "A few days from now, the surrounding tribes will hold a market gathering. Tribe Leader, we should move southwest."
Fang Yuan's eyes lingered on the elder for a moment before he glanced around the camp, taking in the tents, the people, the land—every small detail of this fractured world.
He murmured, almost to himself, the word carrying a weight anyone couldn't understand. "Okay."
...
A few days passed, and the Ge Tribe, under Fang Yuan's calculated direction, decamped and shifted southwest, merging seamlessly with a handful of neighboring tribes.
As they set their course, a vast, chaotic market began to take form—a spectacle that consumed the land.
Draped in the guise of Ge Guang, Fang Yuan moved through the throbbing heart of this market, flanked by his Gu Master guards, their presence barely noticeable as they kept their distance, shadows cast in his wake. The market was alive, a roaring beast of human activity, its pulse beating through the endless rows of vendors and stalls.
...
"Fresh cakes, piping hot! Come, try one—just one!"
"Tea, Coffee! Top-tier wine, brewed to perfection!"
"Mu family's Liquor, aged ten years! The finest you'll ever taste!"
...
The air was thick with scents—some pleasant, others sharp and pungent. The sounds of relentless shouting, laughter, and bargaining filled the air, a cacophony of human desire.
Small stalls lined every available space, their owners hawking their goods with wild enthusiasm. But beneath the noise, there was an undercurrent of calculation, of people haggling for every coin, fighting for every advantage.
The air buzzed with the chaotic energy of the crowd, thick with the festive mood that pressed in on Fang Yuan like a tangible force.
He moved through the bustling masses, barely grazing shoulders with those around him. The din of merchants calling out their wares and children laughing echoed against the backdrop of vibrant stalls.
Everywhere he looked, goods were for sale.
Simple sheep and dog skin robes for the common folk, and finer bull skin garments for those with more coin to spare. There were luxurious fox snow robes, their fur glistening like freshly fallen snow, and wolf skin cloaks, adorned with jagged metal pieces—a favored choice for hardened warriors.
Children darted around food vendors, their hands sticky with sweets, while men haggled fiercely at weapon stalls. Women lingered at jewelers, eyes flickering over gold, pearls, and delicate trinkets as if the weight of wealth were not a concern.
Fang Yuan's eyes narrowed as he approached the square—a rough-hewn space thrown together haphazardly. Its focus was grim and unflinching.
In the center of the square, towering wooden cages loomed like prisons for the soul. Inside, emaciated figures huddled, their faces gaunt, their bodies beaten down by defeat and despair.
A rowdy, greasy man, his voice booming over the crowd, yelled out his crude offer: "Selling slaves"
"Five male slaves for half a primeval stone! Half a stone!" His voice was grating, almost frenzied, as he prodded at the chained men and children within the cages.
Fang Yuan's gaze didn't falter. His eyes swept over the scene with a clinical coldness—this was the market of the Northern Plains, where defeat was paid for in blood and chains.
The prisoners here weren't simply captives; they were commodities. Their fate had been sealed the moment they were captured.
Their bodies, their very lives, were now the property of those who could afford them.
The children were skeletal, naked and filthy, their faces hollowed out with hunger.
The men were crouched, some kneeling, their heads bowed in silent surrender, the glint of iron chains marking them as little more than animals. And there were women too, their expressions vacant, their spirits already broken.
The fat man's voice bellowed, but his efforts felt like pushing against a brick wall. Sweat dripped from his brow as he desperately tried to drum up interest, but the crowd was unmoved. Eyes glazed over, they passed by with cold indifference, too distracted by their own lives to give a damn about his greasy sales pitch.
Suddenly, a cunning, rotten light flickered in his piggish eyes.
With a grunt, he unbolted the wooden cage and yanked it open. A woman stumbled out, her body thin and fragile, covered in layers of dirt, her face as blank as a piece of stone.
"Look! This is the prime stock!" the fat man shouted, a sickening leer spreading across his face.
With a snarl, he shredded her threadbare tunic, exposing her full, pale breasts to the leering crowd.
"Look at these tits! Ripe and heavy! Perfect for a suckling or a rough fuck!"
His hands groped, squeezing the soft flesh as he made a crude mockery of her existence.
The woman said nothing. She didn't flinch. She didn't move.
Her eyes remained empty, like a broken doll, there to be ogled and discarded at will.
The fat man turned her around, exposing her backside. With a resounding slap, he struck her ass, sending her trembling figure jolting forward.
"Look at this big ass! You can pound her hard and breed a dozen brats!"
"Buy her to plough, to spawn your heirs, to break your back in the fields, or to just bend over and use as your personal cunt!"
Throughout the violation, the woman was a doll of utter desolation, her spirit long since crushed into nothingness, a vessel waiting to be filled by any depravity.
But the fat man's degenerate sales pitch finally worked. A low, hungry murmur began to ripple through the mob.