727: March Toward the Glory of the Progenitor

That night, after racing all the way back, Grand Warlord Hugsen finally returned to Moss Valley aboard a Voodoo Wyvern of the Rending Claw Clan, just before the Huntmaster's divine selection ceremony began.

He had just ridden his black-and-red dire wolf, "Deathclaw," away from the landing site when he saw Lord Manson waiting expressionlessly at the fork ahead. Two squads of Bloodscar Clan Hunt's Chosen stood beside him.

Every one of these gnolls held the rank of silver, and they wore armor decorated with the hides and bones of thunder lizards. Their weapons glimmered with foul, corroding power, and each of them was twice the size of an ordinary elite brute.

Calling them "big guys" was no exaggeration.

They also radiated a distinctly dangerous aura. Hugsen knew he could easily defeat them, but the sense of danger remained undiminished by the gap in strength. That was proof enough that they had means of inflicting real damage across differences in rank.

The name "Hunt's Chosen" also made it clear that they were the Huntmaster's warriors in the mortal world. They were fundamentally different from ordinary gnolls.

"On the eve of such an important ceremony, you disappeared for half a day without a word?"

Lord Manson was deeply displeased as he led Hugsen into Moss Valley, which the Bloodscar Clan had placed under lockdown. Leaning on his bone staff, he scolded him:

"I doubt Chieftain Botana taught you to behave so irresponsibly."

Hugsen didn't argue. Instead, he took something from the hunting pack on his back and handed it to Manson.

The latter raised his brows in surprise.

It was a pair of elven-style combat claws, their strange surfaces shimmering with purple-black light.

Their maker had fashioned them into exquisite, beastlike gauntlets. A closer look revealed the shape of the Abyssal Fateweaver