The Salme Mountains stretched over two thousand kilometers, their cloud-piercing peaks countless, their dense vegetation creating a paradise of strange allure.

  For those unaccustomed to the mountain’s damp air or the overpowering stench of rotting vegetation, animal refuse, and fermenting feces, this place was hell—every second a test of endurance.

  But even for those who adapted, it offered no true refuge. Man-eating plants, predatory animals, and… humans who preyed on their own kind lurked everywhere.

  The Black Barbarians who inhabited these woods were not the unenlightened savages outsiders imagined, driven solely by wild instinct without a code of ethics. In essence, they were no different from the Desi people beyond the mountains—distinct only in skin, hair, and eye color, and in language. Fundamentally human, their lives merely reflected the forest’s unvarnished laws. Cannibalism existed in both worlds: in the civilized realm, elegant nobles practiced it as a bloodless art called politics, a refined form of exploitation; here, in the primordial forest governed by natural selection, it was raw and direct. Many Black Barbarians killed opponents by piercing their hearts, then stabbed dozens of holes in the corpse with bamboo skewers, using the taut bladder of a black rock sheep to pump water into the heart and make blood spray from each wound. Whether to roast or boil the flesh depended on personal taste.

  Most preferred roasting, as it minimized the gamey smell.

  It was early spring, the world outside still hovering near freezing, but the forest had warmed to a cool 10°C—chilly yet suitable for outdoor activity. In a broadleaf thicket, an archer in leather armor—clearly from the civilized world—peered out. A dozen meters away, a Black Barbarian sentry crouched on a tree branch, a simple short bow slung across his back, his gaze sweeping the surroundings with lazy vigilance.

  This was a Barbarian lookout. The archer in the thicket slowly nocked a hunting arrow with a three-edged, barbed tip, aimed at the sentry, and loosed it with a faint whoosh. The Barbarian jerked violently, eyes bulging as he tried to locate the sound, but his body lurched sideways, an arrow protruding from his chest. He fell from the tree, gasping and gurgling as blood filled his lungs, suffering the most agonizing death: suffocation. Each attempt to speak only worsened the flooding, making breathing a struggle.

  The archer emerged from the thicket, camouflaged by a grass-woven hat and green tree sap smeared on his face, nearly invisible if not for close inspection. He crept to the dying Barbarian, his gaze as indifferent as a butcher’s, devoid of pity or remorse—merely regarding the man as livestock. Drawing a dagger from his calf sheath, he stabbed the Barbarian’s heart, twisting the blade to ensure death, then sliced off the left ear and tucked it into his pouch. Wiping the bloody dagger on the corpse’s chest, he sheathed it and continued creeping forward, eyes scanning for the next target.

  Moments later, a silent column of men trudged through, stepping over the body as if it were a fallen log, their faces blank of guilt.

  Nearly a kilometer away, a Barbarian tribe nestled in the forest: two dozen thatched huts elevated on wooden stilts, clustered around a massive fire pit where flames crackled, roasting various meats and vegetables on upright branches. Black Barbarian women huddled together, chattering in their native tongue, while the men sharpened spears and bows on the other side of the clearing.

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  Though labeled "barbarians," the Black Barbarians were far from foolish. Among them were traders who exchanged animal pelts and glittering stones for iron tools and cloth from the civilized world, lured by the merchants’ insatiable greed for profit.

  Suddenly, the tribe’s peace shattered. A ring of outsiders surrounded the settlement, shouting "Kabu! Kabu siye!"—a dialect command: "Kneel and live."

  Some forty adult males grabbed their weapons and formed a tight circle, backs to each other, their eyes blazing with hatred at the intruders.

  The civilized men who spoke the dialect shouted offers of surrender, but a dozen younger Barbarians, their dark faces flushing with shame, charged with spears, screaming defiant syllables.

  They were met not with swordplay, but with a volley of arrows. In an instant, the young warriors were pinned to the ground, their bodies twitching as their women screamed in horror.

  The eldest male Barbarian spoke a few words, and the others reluctantly dropped their weapons, submitting to a fate laced with cruelty.

  The men were bound, their ankles shackled with a wooden pole fitted with nooses at both ends, then shaved bald with clippers and tied to wooden wagons. A middle-aged man pressed a red-hot branding iron into each shoulder, the stench of burning flesh and hair filling the air as the mark of Harvey’s merchant company seared into their skin, accompanied by their screams.

  The branding master, one of the highest-paid in the slave-hunting crew, required precision: an overheated iron burned too deep, ruining the mark; a cool one left it faint and easily forgotten. Only a specialist could ensure clear, lasting brands.

  The women were sorted by skin tone: darker-skinned ones herded to one side, lighter-skinned to the other. The darker women would be sold as cheap labor in warehouse auctions, bought by unmarried laborers for both household work and bed, costing as little as a few silver coins. The lighter-skinned women underwent rigorous inspection, graded into four tiers—premium, high, mid, low—and sold in slave markets for 10 to 50 silver coins, with rare "premium" beauties fetching hundreds.

  As for the children, tradition dictated killing boys and selling girls, but Arno’s "Black Barbarian Reserve" policy forbade genocide, so the children were temporarily kept and would be released into the forest before the crew departed.

  This single tribe yielded nearly 150 qualified slaves, netting Harvey around 30 gold coins in gross profit—a testament to the slave trade’s staggering profitability, requiring little more than violence and greed.

  The old and infirm faced a darker fate: they would become fertilizer for the forest, their bodies left for the scavengers.

  As the slavers raised their blades to dispatch these "burdens," the eldest Barbarian suddenly uttered a rapid stream of dialect. The Pramisburgers who understood him froze, then one man pushed through the crowd to Harvey, his cheeks trembling with excitement. "Boss, we’ve hit the motherlode!"

  Harvey’s eyebrow twitched, a grin spreading. "Explain."

  "He’s cursing us," the man said, breathless.

  Harvey’s smile turned icy, his eyes narrowing. "You’re thrilled because a dying man curses me?" The man flinched under his gaze.

  Quickly, he clarified, "No, boss—he said the Saintess will summon the gods to destroy us!"

  "Saintess?!" Harvey’s voice rose to a sharp pitch, his pupils dilating. In Black Barbarian belief, the Saintess was a mythic figure: born pure, her skin, hair, and even eyelashes as white as snow, a rarity among their dark-skinned people, revered as a divine emissary guiding them to glory.

  In reality, she was an albino, a genetic anomaly, but to the Barbarians, she was a symbol of sacred authority. To the civilized world, she was a treasure—rare, exotic, and invaluable to nobles who obsessed over such curiosities.

  Harvey’s eyes reddened with greed, his voice a growl as he paced, fists clenched. "Find out which tribe she’s in. Our fortunes—all of ours—depend on capturing her." He panted, feral and focused, like a predator scenting prey.