The sky was gradually darkening, and the tent was becoming more dim. The flickering campfire in the corner cast shadows of the Canine Warriors, making one feel slightly warm.
Upon hearing Alan's words, the old Militia wiped sweat from his brow. Though he couldn't fully understand the low Guajili language of the other party, he could nevertheless sense the obvious hostility and indifference, which was distinctly different from what his son had described. What happened to the "easygoing Alan sister" as he was told?
"Chieftain of the Red Crow Tribe!…"
Two steps away, Priest Mekate had a serious expression and a sharp gaze. He straightened his chest and was about to step forward to refute. The old Militia beside him shook his arm, hurriedly holding back the Priest Mekate, and stepped forward himself, humbly bowing his head.
