They all turned to him.
Shock rippled across their faces. Of all the people who might have spoken up or taken action, none had expected it to be him. Galthor carried a reputation well-known throughout the tribe: the useless son who relied on his father’s name to oppress others.
He had abandoned the path of a warrior the moment he learned the basics, wasting his days instead on drink and women.
But worst of all, he was branded a traitor to both his family and his tribe, among barbarians, an act as vile as cursing one’s own mother.
Disgust twisted across Brakthar’s face. "You...! What trick are you pulling? I’m fulfilling the Chief’s last wish, and you still dare spout stupidity?
"It was your family that was slaughtered! Even your brothers and sisters raised their weapons to defend blood, while you fled screaming like a pup!"
Even the red-haired leader regarded him with sheer disdain, as though he were nothing more than filth along the roadside. "I’ll place your head beside your father’s."
Galthor drew a deep breath.
It seemed the host body he had inherited was without dignity or prestige.
’...Just my luck to be stuck in the most wretched body of all. But from this moment, I’ll start repairing this reputation. Perhaps it may serve me in ways I’ll need later..’
He searched through the host’s memories.
"Brakthar, you swore to me beneath the free sky that you would guard me until death!" Galthor declared.
"Something I now deeply regret," Brakthar spat.
But Galthor wasn’t finished. He needed Brakthar to see him in a new light. He needed to rebuild a reputation worthy of respect, one that could pave the way to cultivating his godhood. A reputation that could represent a god!
"You have done well, and I thank you deeply," Galthor said solemnly, ignoring the heat radiating from the red-haired warrior, who watched him with mocking amusement. "From this day onward, I, Galthor Stronghide, last of the Stronghide line, and rightful leader of the Rukthar tribe, release you from your oath!"
"What?" Brakthar recoiled. His mouth opened and closed wordlessly, his eyes wide. "What are you saying...?"
Galthor’s gaze was cold, solemn. He gave a short bow before straightening. "I will earn your oath again, Brakthar. But for now, I must settle a blood debt. Step back. This is my burden."
Brakthar hesitated. Yet in the end, he knew the truth, this blood debt belonged to Galthor before it belonged to anyone else. He had no right to stand before him as his shield or blade again. And In all honesty, he had always wanted to serve a worthy warrior instead of the useless Galthor.
The red-haired warrior chuckled, amused. "I can’t help but admire your words, though they smell of desperation, are you looking for ways to escape death? A pity. At the end of the day, a barbarian is still a barbarian even a lowborn whore’s son like you."
Galthor carried no weapon as he stepped forward, closing the space between himself and the inferno sword in the red-haired leader’s grip. And yet, he showed no fear. His lips even curled into a faint smile.
"Brakthar," he said softly, "you are one of those who clings to hope, who believes the gods will one day return.
"Today, I will show you a miracle."
The red-haired snorted. "Enough nonsense. I’ll cut you down, and then we’ll resume our battle, Brakthar."
Without hesitation, he lunged. His sword screamed through the air, his figure blurring as he appeared behind Galthor in an instant.
Blood sprayed. The red-haired warrior sneered. "You’ve outlived your usefulness—!"
But then his eyes widened. Something was wrong...why was he feeling pain?
His gaze fixed downward, to where his right hand should have been.
From the elbow down, his arm was gone, torn away.
The sneer vanished, replaced by horror. "H-how...? When...?"
Brakthar stared in shock, his mind unable to grasp what he had witnessed. As a master essence user, he could track the red-haired warrior’s movements. He had seen the perfect strike aimed to cleave Galthor in two without fail.
Yet, at the final instant, Galthor had moved with impossible speed and somehow torn the man’s arm away.
It made no sense.
This was Galthor the useless trash betrayal of the tribe, the one everyone spat upon, the one who would have been gutted long ago if not for his father’s name. How could such a man do this to a master essence user....someone who stood at the pinnacle of cultivation without divine aid?
And what’s more...the red hair leader was blessed.
Galthor turned, facing the red-haired leader. As he did, silver light mixed with crimson flared across his body, spreading with a mild shockwave.
The aura surrounding him carried profound dignity and unshakable holiness. An ancient resonance clung to it, one that all who beheld instinctively recognized.
It was a Divine Aura.
Power rippled outward, pressing down on everything nearby. When it touched the barbarians, an overwhelming urge swept over them, to kneel, to bow their heads in worship.
"What..." Brakthar gasped, sinking slowly to his knees.
The red-haired warrior leader flinched, clutching his bleeding stump, his legs trembling as he too sank into submission. Around them, every barbarian in the chamber followed suit.
In the blink of an eye, all were bowing before Galthor.
He nodded in satisfaction. Compared to the might of true gods, he was little more than a speck. Yet to mortals, his Divine Core shone brighter than any essence master.
And when faced with barbarians, his Divine Aura magnified that power tenfold.
This was the extent of what Galthor could wield for now.
"Brakthar! This is the miracle I promised. The god is not dead!" His voice thundered with certainty. He turned his cold gaze back to the red-haired. "Now, bastard, did I not tell you I would fight you? Pick up your sword. We’ll settle this blood debt between us."
With a kick, he sent the fallen weapon skidding across the ground, then drew back his Divine Aura so the barbarians would no longer be suppressed, he wanted to deal with him while he fights back.
He meant every word. The blood debt had to be paid. It was what he owed to the host body’s fallen family.