Chapter 682: Unsatisfactory Trophies
Predator Mothership, Hunting Command Center.
On the cold metal deck, the recent hunting yields of the Young Bloods were displayed one by one.
They were meticulously cleaned and processed trophies—dozens of bone-white skeletons, arranged neatly before the Elder.
Every trophy strictly adhered to the traditional Predator craftsmanship: the prey's skull was removed intact and remained attached to its primary segment of the spinal column, forming a complete, cruel symbol of the hunt and conquest.
The skulls of various beasts from the planet Pandora—from agile Viperwolves to ferocious Sturmbeests—their skeletal structures varied, but all were processed to be spotless, presenting a cold, dry, white bone form.
Scattered sparsely among these beast bones were slightly more meaningful collectibles: a few human skulls belonging to ordinary RDA soldiers, attached to short segments of cervical vertebrae; and a few elongated blue skulls of Na'vi hunters, similarly attached to their uniquely slender neck bone segments.
Although this physical collection of trophies was substantial in number and somewhat diverse in species, under the Elder's critical scrutiny, they still lacked the true weight of a proof of honor.
There were no skeletons of apex predators powerful enough to test a hunter's skill, nor were there skulls of well-equipped, masterfully skilled warriors.
What lay before him were mere appetizers, utterly incapable of washing away the shame brought by Celtic's death, nor satisfying the Blood Blade Clan's thirst for true glory.
"Trash!" A deep, oppressive voice finally shattered the silence, rolling through the chamber like muffled thunder. "Is this the result of your prolonged sharpening? Using the bones of these inferior creatures to fill your trophy racks? When did the honor of the Blood Blade Clan become so cheap!"
His gaze lashed out like a physical whip, striking the Young Bloods who had their heads bowed.
"Celtic remains unavenged, the Clan's shame remains unwashed, and yet you are satisfied catching little beasts in the jungle? It seems comfort and underestimation of the enemy have rotted your hunter's hearts."
He suddenly spun around, looking at the five mature warriors who had been standing in silent reverence.
"The trials of the Young Bloods require much crueler guidance. It is time to show these fledglings what a true hunt is, and what... destruction is."
"Elder, what is your intention?" A veteran warrior, whose shoulder armor bore six deep claw marks, asked in a low voice.
"We will take the field personally," the Elder's voice held no trace of emotion. "Choose a target... a suitable Na'vi settlement. Let them use their blood and terror to remember the price of offending the Blood Blade Clan. And let our Young Bloods witness how a proper harvest is conducted."
The orders were rapidly issued.
A specially modified assault skiff, boasting superior cloaking capabilities, quietly detached from the mothership. Carrying the Elder, three mature warriors, and two specifically chosen Young Bloods to observe, it shot toward the dense jungles of Pandora like a deadly stinger.
Their target was a small Na'vi clan named Song of the Valley, situated on the fringes of the Omaticaya's sphere of influence.
This clan was built nestled against a clear waterfall and stream. With a population of just over a hundred, they lived primarily by fishing and gathering bioluminescent moss. They had few warriors, and their culture was relatively peaceful.
The assault skiff touched down in a concealed mountain fold several kilometers away from the clan.
The Elder and his retinue infiltrated the jungle like phantoms. Their movements were swift and soundless; even the most experienced Na'vi hunters would find it impossible to detect their approach.
It was dusk. Plumes of cooking smoke rose from the Song of the Valley clan, children played among the hanging aerial roots of their Hometree, women were processing the day's food, and hunters returned from the forest in groups of twos and threes, sharing the day's harvest.
It was a scene of peace and tranquility.
However, the shadow of death had already descended.
The Elder made a hand signal. The three mature warriors, like hounds receiving a command, instantly scattered. Utilizing their cloaking fields and the dense vegetation, they silently infiltrated the clan's perimeter from three different directions.
They first eliminated the hidden perimeter sentries—the Na'vi hunters responsible for the watch were decapitated by precisely thrown smart-discs or had their hearts pierced by silent wristblades before they could even utter a warning.
By the time the first agonizing alarm was finally raised by a Na'vi who discovered a comrade's corpse, the massacre had already begun.
The screech of plasma casters replaced the gentle evening breeze.
Searing beams fired with pinpoint accuracy, blasting down the male Na'vi warriors charging out of the Hometree armed with longbows and bone spears one by one. Their wounds carbonized instantly, leaving no time for blood to even spill.
Wristblades and combi-sticks displayed terrifying efficiency in close-quarters combat. The Na'vi's resilient skin and bones were paper-thin before the alien alloys.
The battle, or rather the slaughter, erupted suddenly and fiercely.
The Na'vi warriors resisted bravely. They shouted Eywa's name, firing their longbows and hurling their bone spears, but most of their attacks missed or only managed to leave shallow scratches on the Predators' heavy armor.
The generational gap in technology and combat experience was displayed in all its brutal entirety in this moment.
The Elder himself did not participate in the localized killing. He strolled through the chaotic settlement as if taking a leisurely walk, occasionally raising a hand to blast a Na'vi chieftain attempting to organize an effective counterattack into pieces with his far more devastating shoulder caster.
His cold gaze swept across the battlefield, as if reviewing a performance rehearsed countless times.
The two trailing Young Bloods followed nervously behind him, recording every tactical maneuver and kill selection of the mature warriors, their minds undergoing a massive shock.
Adhering to the ancient traditions of the Predators, the Elder ordered that the elderly, women, and children—those clearly lacking combat capability—be spared.
When the final male Na'vi warrior who dared to resist fell in a pool of blood, the Predators ceased their attack.
The once vibrant settlement had been reduced to a slaughterhouse.
Dozens of Na'vi warrior corpses lay haphazardly across the ground, the air thick with the stench of charred flesh and blood.
The surviving elderly, women, and children huddled at the base of the Hometree or within ruined huts, letting out suppressed, despairing cries and wails.
The Elder walked up to the Hometree. Using his wristblade, he carved a clear hunting mark of the Blood Blade Clan into the trunk.
"Remember this sight," the Elder told the two deeply shaken Young Bloods, his voice remaining flat. "This is the fate of those who provoke us. A hunt is not merely about claiming trophies; it is about sowing terror and establishing supremacy."
He did not spare another glance at the survivors. Turning around, he led the warriors and the Young Bloods away as silently as they had arrived, leaving behind only a ground littered with corpses, burning huts, and a small clan utterly destroyed by fear and sorrow.