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?"
His voice cracked with rage. "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 Thrainor regarded him with sheer disdain, as though he were nothing more than filth. "I'll place your head beside your father's."
Galthor drew a deep breath.
The host body he'd inherited was without dignity or prestige. Just his luck to be stuck in the most wretched vessel of all. But from this moment, he'd start repairing this reputation. Perhaps it might serve him in ways he'd need later.
He searched through the host's memories, finding leverage.
"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 differently. He needed to rebuild a reputation worthy of respect, one that could represent a god.
"You have done well, and I thank you deeply," Galthor said solemnly, ignoring the heat radiating from Thrainor's blade. "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 opening wordlessly, 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 he knew the truth, this blood debt belonged to Galthor before anyone else. He had no right to stand as his shield. And honestly, he'd always wanted to serve a worthy warrior instead of the useless Galthor.
Thrainor 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. 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."
Thrainor 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. Thrainor 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. "How? When?"
Brakthar stared in shock, unable to grasp what he'd witnessed. As a Master essence user, he could track Thrainor's movements. He had seen the perfect strike aimed to cleave Galthor in two.
Yet at the final instant, Galthor had moved with impossible speed and torn the man's arm away.
It made no sense.
This was Galthor—the useless traitor everyone spat upon. How could such a man do this to a Master essence user, someone who stood at cultivation's pinnacle without divine aid?
And Thrainor was blessed.
Galthor turned, facing Thrainor. 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.
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.
Thrainor 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 Thrainor. "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 Thrainor while he fought back.
He meant every word. The blood debt had to be paid. It was what he owed to the host body's fallen family.