Muye Tribe.
Hundreds of dilapidated oxhide tents lay scattered sparsely across a patch of withered yellow grassland.
The grass stalks, brittle as if scorched by autumn frost, gave off faint, broken whimpers when the night wind blew through them, as though mourning what was about to happen on this land.
The tent canvas had been blackened by smoke, its corners long worn and frayed. It flapped wildly in the howling wind, and from afar, it looked like soul-summoning banners drifting over graves in the wilderness.
At the heart of the tribe stood a main tent three times larger than the surrounding ones. It was the residence of the chieftain, Zamud.
The tent flap was decorated with wolf fangs and beast bones, exuding a savage, ferocious air.
At this moment, the main tent was brightly lit. Tallow candles rested in candlesticks made from animal horns, and the flickering flames stretched the shadows of those inside long, then short.
In the center of the tent stood a low wooden table hewn from an entire poplar trunk. Its surface was rough and covered in knife marks and scratches, traces left behind by the tribe's men wrestling after drinking.
The table was laden with steaming platters of roasted meat. Chunks of golden-brown, glistening beef were piled as high as a small mountain. The roasted lamb legs sizzled with grease, golden fat running down the bones and dripping into the cracks in the tabletop, giving off a rich yet faintly gamey aroma.
Five burly men with bare chests sat around the wooden table.
Their dark chests were crisscrossed with scars, and all of them wore unruly beards, with scraps of meat and wine stains still clinging to the stubble.
The man seated in the middle was none other than the tribal chieftain, Zamud.
He wore