At these words, the stone-axe man's face went from pale to ashen.
The people behind him abruptly raised their heads, their faces filled with terror.
Having a tribe and having no tribe were practically two extremes in the wilderness.
What was outside?
Poisonous food!
Dangerous surroundings!
Demons, savage beasts, and even swamps and dense forests where not even gods were willing to set foot.
"You want us dead!"
One of the men could not help roaring, "Driving us out is no different from killing us!"
"There is a difference."
The man faced the roaring man directly, his voice turning cold. "At least you're still alive. You can go find another tribe willing to take you in.
Or build a tribe of your own.
In short, whether you can survive or not depends entirely on yourselves."
He paused, then added, "Just as we will no longer rely on the gods from now on, we too must survive by our own strength."
Hearing this, the stone-axe man seemed to have had every bone pulled from his body.
He looked back at the followers behind him.
Some had already begun to cry.
Some were still trembling.
Some stared woodenly at the ground, their eyes hollow.
Clearly, they all regretted it—regretted turning hostile.
The stone-axe man turned back again and looked at the man who held his life and death in his hands. His lips moved several times, but in the end, he managed to squeeze out only one word. "Fine!"
At this point, begging for mercy was utterly meaningless.
He immediately rose to his feet.
First, he picked up his stone axe, then staggered toward his own hut.
The people behind him hesitated one after another.
Some followed behind to pack their things, while others stood where they were, at a complete loss.