The northern tribesmen step out from behind the trees, one by one, forming a loose circle around the carriage.

The air tightens.

The driver reacts instantly, drawing his sword with a sharp ring of steel.

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he shouts.

“This is a grave sin!”

From among the tribesmen, a tall man steps forward.

His aura is steady, restrained, unmistakably at the Blood Seal realm.

“We mean no harm,” the man says evenly.

“We only wish to invite the captain to our residence for a talk.”

He must be the leader, Merin thinks.

From inside the carriage, Merin calls calmly, “Enough.”

He speaks the driver’s name, his tone steady, unmistakable.

“Put the sword away. Calm yourself.”

The driver hesitates, then lowers his blade, though his grip remains tight.

Merin then addresses the tribesmen directly.

“If it’s a talk,” he says, “how about we have it at my home?”

“It’s nearby.”

A brief pause follows.

The leader studies Merin’s face, weighing something unseen.

Then he nods.

“Alright.”

Merin gestures lightly to the driver.

“Continue.”

The carriage rolls forward again, wheels creaking softly.

Behind it, the northern tribesmen follow on foot, maintaining distance but never falling behind.

Soon, the carriage turns onto the private road leading into the Duan estate.

Guards at the gate tense at the sight of armed tribesmen but do not move as Merin’s insignia comes into view.

Merin leans out and gives an order.

“Take them to the Dusk Pavilion,” he says.

“Serve them food and wine.”

The guards bow and move to comply.

The carriage continues inward and stops before the main house.

Merin steps down.

Uncle Chen, the housekeeper, approaches at once.

“Uncle Chen,” Merin says, “we have guests.”

“I’ve sent them to the Dusk Pavilion.”

“Send people to attend to them properly.”

“Yes, young lord,” Uncle Chen replies without hesitation.

Merin walks into the house.

Along the corridors, servants and maids pause and bow respectfully as he passes.

Merin returns their greetings with brief nods and enters his room.

Inside, he places the pill bottle on the table and removes his Divine Guard uniform, changing into loose, comfortable clothing.

When he steps out again, Uncle Chen is waiting.

The housekeeper lowers his voice, concern evident.

“Young lord,” he says, “those guests… they are northern tribesmen.”

The concern is justified.

Many northern tribes remain enemies of the Song Kingdom.

Associating with them can be fatal in the political arena.

Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

The war that ended a few years ago—

the one in which Merin’s father died—

It was fought against a coalition of northern tribes.

Even now, the kingdom’s wounds have not fully healed.

Merin answers calmly.

“Don’t worry,” he says.

“They aren’t from enemy tribes.”

He does not know exactly which tribe they belong to, but he knows enough.

They lived openly in the city for months.

No official agency disturbed them.

That alone rules out enemy status.

Uncle Chen exhales slowly.

“I hope so,” he says.

Together, they walk toward the Dusk Pavilion.

The corridor of the main house stretches long and quiet, its wooden floor polished smooth by years of footsteps.

Soft lantern light spills from carved brackets along the walls, casting warm halos that sway gently with the night breeze.

As Merin and Uncle Chen pass, maids move silently ahead of them.

One lifts a small oil flask and carefully pours it into a lamp whose flame is close to dying, coaxing it back to life.

Another trims a wick with practised fingers.

No one speaks.

Only the faint crackle of flame and the whisper of cloth broke the stillness.

They step out of the main house and into the garden.

Cool night air greets them.

Stone paths wind through trimmed hedges and low trees, the garden illuminated by a crescent moon hanging low in the sky.

Stars scatter faint light across the open space, while lamps mounted on slender poles outline the paths in soft gold.

They walk onward.

The sound of voices grows clearer—low, restrained, unfamiliar accents.

Beneath it runs the gentle murmur of water.

An artificial stream appears ahead, its surface reflecting moonlight in trembling lines.

A narrow stone bridge arches over it, worn smooth at the centre.

Merin crosses first, his steps unhurried.

Below, water flows quietly over rounded stones.

On the other side, night-blooming flowers line the path—white and pale blue petals open to the darkness, releasing a faint, sweet fragrance that drifts lazily through the air.

The Dusk Pavilion stands ahead.

Open-sided, elegant, its roof curved upward at the corners like a resting bird.

Merin steps inside.

A large round table dominates the centre, laid with dishes and wine jars, steam still rising faintly.

The northern tribesmen sit around it, backs straight, hands resting on their knees.

No one has touched the food.

No one has lifted a cup.

Their eyes follow Merin as he approaches.

An empty seat has been left for him.

Merin takes it without ceremony.

“Let’s eat first,” he says calmly.

“Then we can talk.”

A maid steps forward at once, bowing slightly as she places the first dish before him—chicken dumplings, neatly arranged, their aroma warm and inviting.

Merin picks one up and takes a bite.

The filling is tender.

The seasoning is simple.

He chews slowly.

Across the table, the tribesmen remain motionless.

Merin glances up.

Seeing them still hesitate, he speaks again, his tone even.

“Eat,” he says.

“There is no poison in the food.”

A moment passes.

Then one of them reaches for a cup.

Another follows.

Soon, cautious movements spread around the table.

Hands lift chopsticks.

Wine is poured.

Food is tasted, first sparingly, then with growing ease.

The conversation has not started yet.

Only the sounds of eating, the clink of porcelain, the murmur of the stream beyond the pavilion.

Time passes.

The dishes are empty.

Wine jars are replaced with tea.

Merin sets his cup down and lifts his own tea, the steam curling faintly before his face.

He takes a sip.

Then he looks around the table, his gaze steady.

“How is Yin Li related to all of you?”

The leader speaks, his voice low but firm.

“Yin Li’s real name is Toga.”

“He is from our Mammoth Tribe.”

Behind Merin, the housekeeper exhales softly and leans closer, whispering with clear relief,

“It is a neutral tribe, living in the Great Lake Valley.”

Merin nods once.

The leader continues, “We sent him to gather information from the Black Dog Gang.”

Merin listens, his expression unchanged, but his thoughts move quickly.

The Black Dog Gang’s butcher business relies heavily on meat sourced from the Magoon Mountains.

They have long-standing partnerships with multiple mountain tribes.

Did the Black Dog Gang steal something from the Mammoth Tribe?

The question sharpens in his mind.

“Why?” Merin asks simply.

Outwardly, he does not look eager to solve the case, yet in truth, he very much intends to.

Every solved case brings merit points.

Merit points mean access to resources, pills, techniques, and materials locked behind status and wealth.

Even as a noble, many doors remain closed to him.

Merin leans forward slightly, attentive.

The leader’s hands tighten on the table’s edge.

“While most of our warriors were away hunting,” he says, “the Black Dog Gang attacked our tribe.”

“They captured several of our women.”

A sharp gasp sounds behind Merin.

“What?” the housekeeper blurts out, unable to restrain himself.

His shock is genuine.

Slavery exists in the Song Kingdom, but it is strictly regulated.

Every slave must be registered with the court.

Capturing women directly—whether for slavery or worse—is a grave crime.

Merin’s eyes narrow slightly.

“Did your tribe not have defences against the Black Dog Gang?”

The leader lowers his head.

“We trusted them,” he says.

“For years, we were in a cooperative relationship.”

“They supplied meat. We supplied hides and mountain herbs.”

“We were caught off guard.”

Merin nods slowly.

“And did Toga find anything about those women?” he asks.

The leader hesitates, then answers,

“Toga’s last message said he was getting close to where the women were being held.”

Silence settles over the pavilion.

Merin takes a slow breath.

“So,” he says, “you came to me to ask for help locating them.”

The leader pushes his chair back and stands.

One by one, the other tribesmen rise as well.

They bow deeply toward Merin.

“Lord,” the leader says, his voice thick,

“Please help us.”

“If you help us find our women, our Mammoth Tribe will be forever grateful.”

The others echo together, voices overlapping with sincerity and restrained desperation.

Merin does not answer immediately.

He considers the situation carefully.

Helping them will almost certainly solve the Yin Li case.

It will also give him leverage and a foothold in the northern mountains.

Access to tribal resources—beast blood, mountain herbs, rare bones—will come far more easily through trust than force.

After a moment, he speaks.

“I will help you,” Merin says calmly.

“But you must understand this first.”

“The women may no longer be alive.”

A ripple of pain passes through the tribesmen, but none interrupts.

“And,” Merin continues, “you must follow my arrangements without exception.”

The leader clenches his fists, then bows again, deeper than before.

“We understand,” he says.

“If it helps us recover our women—”

“or take revenge—”

“We will follow your arrangements.”

Merin nods once.

“Good.”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep