The Exile Tribe

The wind howled, sand filled their vision, and no god sheltered the road ahead.

There was no destination, no way back, and no one to greet them on their journey.

An Exile Tribe of more than fifty bugs struggled onward through the windblown sand.

They were mentally exhausted, their supplies pitifully scarce. Only the jingling bell on an elder's staff proved they were still moving.

Bugs often migrated across the wasteland in a constant struggle to survive, gathering together to form tribes.

The official story of the first Hollow Knight game had established that civilizations other than Hallownest existed out in the wasteland.

Those were ultimately few and far between. For bugs, forming scattered nomadic tribes was the way to survive in this wasteland.

But the wasteland had always been merciless, with scarce resources and relentless natural disasters. Tribes could only seize the brief lulls between hurricanes to migrate.

Most of the bugs in this Exile Tribe wore blank expressions. They did not know how much longer they had to walk, or where their destination lay.

The bug leading the tribe was called Gron, and he could be considered its chief.

The vicious scar across his face had been left by a battle with a monstrous beast.

To escape a storm, the previous chief had been forced to lead the tribe into a cave occupied by that beast.

Seeing food delivered right to its doorstep, the ferocious beast had naturally shown no restraint.

The previous chief had died fighting it. Gron had taken up his spear and continued defending the tribe.

That spear was a rare item the previous chief had unearthed from the ruins of some civilization.

Its unusual material made it an exceptionally durable weapon.

It was the most important symbol of the entire tribe.

As for the shield in his other hand, it had been fashioned from the beast's hardest armored scales.

Yet Gron had barely taken over as chief before he ran into serious trouble.

The beast spent its life moving through sand and soil, and little of its body was edible. Left with no other choice, Gron had continued leading the tribe onward.

Many tribe members had died in that battle, but the long march afterward, without any food supplies, had proved even deadlier.

Some bugs fell behind and never caught up again.

Others could bear it no longer and chose to kill themselves, leaving their bodies as a hope of survival for the rest of the tribe.

Many bugs woke the next morning to find that companions who had supported them just the day before were now corpses, yet felt neither horror nor grief.

They simply butchered the bodies in numb silence, storing them as food for the tribe.

This barren wasteland had stripped them of even the most basic emotions.

Even a single tear was an unnecessary waste.

By the end of their long migration, only fifty-odd bugs remained in this band of exiles.

Gron knew he had taken over in haste, but as their chief and strongest fighter, he could never show weakness before his people.

He did not know where to go or what to do next.

But Gron did not want to give up.

No matter what, I have to keep every bug in this tribe alive for as long as I can.

The wind grew stronger, heralding an approaching storm.

Clutching his spear, Gron told himself, Either I find hope for the tribe, or my corpse becomes fuel for the fire.

A tiny speck gradually appeared ahead of the group, growing larger as it approached. It was Gron's second-in-command, Isara.

Isara was a Tiger Beetle, with long, slender limbs and a streamlined shell. Bandages wrapped her body, and she wore a veil to keep out the windblown sand.

But that was not the veil's only purpose. More importantly, it concealed a face that would bring her needless trouble.

Even the other members of the tribe recognized Isara's beauty.

Her exquisite features would have made her the center of attention in any town. Unfortunately, having been born into the tribe, she had been forced to fight for survival from birth.

As the fastest member of the entire tribe, Isara was their ideal scout.

"Chief, there seems to be a cave up ahead. The storm is almost here. We can take shelter inside."

Isara reported what she had found, and Gron nodded. Nothing more needed to be said.

His people were already utterly exhausted. Whatever lay inside that cave, going there was his only choice.

"Everyone, hold on a little longer! There's shelter from the storm up ahead. Once we get there, we can rest!"

Gron looked back at his people and shouted to lift their spirits. He did not want to lose anyone else, whatever the cause.

It truly was good news. Hearing their chief's words, the bugs rallied a little, encouraging one another as they continued toward the cave.

The entrance drew closer, but Gron remained alert, spear and shield in hand. He had not forgotten how he had come to hold his position.

Fortunately, no other bugs seemed to inhabit the cave.

Gron breathed a sigh of relief. When he spotted a small pool inside, with water steadily dripping into it, he felt as though he had discovered treasure.

The tribe was exhausted, and once they saw the water source, they all chose to rest beside it.

They were exceptionally careful even when filling their waterskins, afraid that a careless movement might contaminate this hard-won water with the dirt on their bodies.

Gron stayed where he was to count his people, while Isara was instructed to take several warriors deeper into the cave and ensure that it really was safe.

"Eighteen, nineteen... fifty, fifty-one. Including me, that makes fifty-two..."

Gron's eyes dimmed a little.

Their numbers had dwindled again. Since he had become chief, the tribe had shrunk by nearly half.

Yet there was nothing he could do.

Was the old chief really right to choose me before he died? Am I truly suited to this position?

Gron sighed deeply. The pressure of survival was crushing, but what could he possibly do?

"What are you thinking? We can't take these things!"

"We're starving to death! Please think about the rest of the tribe!"

The voices soon reached him. Gron recognized Isara arguing with another of the warriors he had sent to scout the cave's interior.

Arguments meant conflict, and conflict meant needless bloodshed.

That was bad. Under these circumstances, Gron truly did not want anything else to go wrong.

At that thought, Gron immediately headed deeper into the cave. Fortunately, the argument also meant they had found no other danger inside.

"What happened?"

Upon arriving, Gron immediately noticed the enormous altar dominating the center of the chamber, and the damaged statue of a god standing atop it.

Dilapidated buildings and ruins were common. All kinds of ancient remnants dotted the wilderness.

Gron had once heard the old chief say they were the remains of past civilizations. But Gron did not know what a civilization was. All he knew was that he had grown up in the tribe.

Isara was pointing at the statue on the raised platform, still arguing with another warrior.

Seeing their chief arrive, they came over.

"Chief, tell us who's right. I finally found some food, but Isara won't let me take it!"

Before the warrior could finish, Isara immediately retorted, "That isn't food. Those are offerings to a god! We can't touch them!"

"A god?" Gron was momentarily dazed. It had been a very long time since he had last heard that word.

He remembered how, when he was little, the chief of that time had told the younger generation stories about beings called gods.

Gods were omnipotent higher beings who could perform all manner of incredible feats. Mortal bugs like them could not oppose such beings; upon encountering one, they could only kneel and obey.

But that was not a bad thing. With a god's protection, bugs could live in peace, no longer needing to worry about hunger or shelter.

What a wonderful prospect.

Back then, Gron had listened with rapt attention, always imagining that someday a god might be willing to shelter his tribe.

Then his people would no longer have to worry about food and lodging. They could stop wandering and have a true home.

Yet now Gron was an adult and the new chief, and in all that time, he had never seen a god.

He turned to Isara. As the tribe's scout, she had certainly met more people than he had, even as chief.

He could no longer remember when it had begun, but after returning from one scouting trip, Isara had become utterly convinced that gods existed.

She believed unwaveringly that only a god could save the tribe as it stood.

Gron did not know what had happened on that scouting trip. But aside from her fervor, Isara was remarkably resourceful, and her intelligence had saved the tribe from danger many times.

Had she been old enough, she might have become the current chief instead.

Considering that what she said did make a certain amount of sense, Gron did not dare dismiss it lightly.

In the end, he decided to first determine whether this damaged stone statue truly depicted a god, or was merely a decoration.