Chapter 404 Negotiate

Chapter 404: The Discussion

Wuliji galloped all the way back. By the time he returned to camp, the sky was already bright, but the atmosphere in the camp was even heavier and more suffocating than the wilderness at dawn.

Several familiar or vaguely known figures were gathered around the firepit in the open space before his main tent. Every face was grim, eyes flickering with a barely suppressed restlessness and unease.

They were precisely the tribal chiefs who had also had clan members seized and had earlier hinted at forming an alliance.

Seeing Wuliji ride back at full speed, they rose and came forward to greet him.

However, before they could speak, the rapid, rhythmic pounding of hooves approached from afar.

A squad of palace guards in gleaming armor, led by a herald, pulled up right in front of them.

The herald sat tall on his horse, his arrogant gaze scanning the chiefs before finally settling on Wuliji.

"The Great Khan orders all chiefs to come to his tent for a meeting right now."

As his words fell, dead silence fell over the firepit. The chiefs' faces darkened even further, exchanging glances filled with shock and suspicion.

A meeting? At a time like this? Anyone with half a brain could figure out this was no ordinary meeting.

Hutuke had just burned Bayan Tribe people alive and seized people from all the tribes. "Inviting" them now was clearly a setup.

But... could they refuse?

All eyes went to Wuliji at once.

The hostages were in the enemy's hands. They had a knife at their throats. Refusing would be open defiance—giving Hutuke an excuse to get even more brutal.

The dozen charred corpses from the Bayan Tribe were a grim reminder.

Wuliji took the first step, following in silence. The other chiefs exchanged helpless glances and, ultimately, could only brace themselves and follow.

In a tense, suffocating silence, they were "escorted" to the golden-domed royal tent.

The tent flaps were rolled high, revealing a brightly lit interior that nonetheless gave off a chill more biting than the wind outside.

Hutuke sat in the main seat, which was draped in a full tiger skin, casually toying with a jewel-encrusted dagger.

His eyes, like a circling vulture, swept over the chiefs as they walked in, each with a different expression.

They paused on Wuliji a moment longer, and a faint, unreadable smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

No small talk. No buildup. Hutuke got straight to the point, his voice echoing through the vast tent with a slow and deliberate, chilling authority:

"All of you are well-known heroes of the grasslands, pillars of your tribes. I've called you here today to talk about a matter of life and death for the Northern Di."

He paused, his gaze sweeping the room. "The jackals of Great Zhou and Nanling are closing in. The royal court needs more resources to defend our grasslands, our homeland."

He leaned forward slightly, his voice turning harder: "So from today, every tribe has to hand over another twenty percent of their cattle and sheep to fund the army, reward the warriors, and shore up our defenses."

"Another twenty percent?!" The words hit like cold water in boiling oil.

The chiefs could no longer keep their composure. Shock, fury, and disbelief spread across their faces.

They were still reeling from the last round of taxes. Many tribes had barely made it through the winter, and now they were being asked for even more?!

This wasn't a discussion—it was flaying them alive, leaving them no way to survive!

One hot-tempered chief, Erdene, jumped to his feet, his face turning bright red, his voice shaking with anger:

"Great Khan! This... how can this be?! Last year's levies we barely scraped together. Our storehouses are empty, our pastures barren. Many of our people might not even have enough food or clothes this winter!

Adding another twenty percent would... would be driving our people to their deaths! The laws of the grasslands—by the Eternal Sky above—cannot be so... so ruthless!"

He grew more agitated with each word, his chest rising and falling hard, his eyes bloodshot.

He was genuinely desperate. His tribe was already poor and weak. Another twenty percent would mean people starving to death.

Hutuke showed no trace of anger. Instead, he wore an almost cruel look of "appreciation," as if he had been waiting for someone to step forward.

He gave a casual wave, cutting off Erdene's protest, his voice terrifyingly calm:

"Chief Erdene, your concern for your people is noted. However..." His tone shifted, his gaze suddenly sharp as a blade.

"In a national crisis, everyone has a duty. If everyone only cares for their own tribe's survival, who will defend the Northern Di as one? If the Northern Di falls, what good will your cattle and pastures do you?"

He gave Erdene no chance to retort, tilting his head slightly and calling out to someone outside: "Bring them in."

The hearts of everyone inside clenched. A sense of dread gripped everyone.

Moments later, two hulking guards dragged in an elderly Northern Di woman with graying hair and disheveled clothing.

The old woman looked terrified and bewildered, her lips trembling, her cloudy eyes darting around wildly.

They finally landed on Erdene, and she let out a weak, tearful cry: "My Batu... my Batu..."

It was Erdene's old mother!

"Mother—!!!" Erdene's eyes nearly bulged out of his head as he let out a beast-like roar, lunging forward—only to be grabbed and held back by the men beside him.

Hutuke watched the scene with obvious enjoyment, as if enjoying a fine performance.

He rose slowly, walking over to the terrified, helpless old woman, and even reached out to gently straighten her disheveled white hair.

Then he turned to Erdene, who was trembling all over, eyes bloodshot, about to break down.

His voice was soft, but each word hit like a poisoned ice pick, hammered into everyone's ears:

"Chief Erdene, you see, your mother is old and frail. She's probably not used to living in the royal court. I appreciate your devotion to your mother and understand how hard things are for the tribes. Here's what I'll do..."

He deliberately drew out his words, and under the horrified gazes of all present, suddenly drew the ornate dagger from his waist—a flash of cold steel—"Thunk!"

The blade sank in without any resistance into the old woman's chest!

Blood sprayed instantly, soaking Hutuke's hand and the luxurious carpet beneath his feet.

The old woman didn't even have time to scream. Her eyes flew wide, filled with endless terror and confusion, before her body crumpled limply to the ground.

"Mother—!!! No—!!!" Erdene let out a gut-wrenching, inhuman wail.

In an instant, as if his bones had turned to water, he collapsed to the ground, desperately struggling to crawl toward her, only to be held down by another chief.

Tears and snot streaming down his face, his throat making guttural, choking sounds, he watched in despair as his mother lay in a pool of blood, her body twitching once, twice, before going still.

The entire royal tent fell into dead silence. Only Erdene's muffled, beast-like sobs and the thick, nauseating stench of blood filled the air.

The other chiefs' faces were white as a sheet, their bodies ice-cold. Some trembled uncontrollably, keeping their heads bowed, unable to look at the bloody scene—or at Hutuke's smiling face, more terrifying than a demon.

Hutuk wiped the blood off his dagger with a silk handkerchief, as if he had just slaughtered a lamb.

He settled back into the seat of honor, his gaze sweeping over the silent, terrified crowd before finally settling on Wuliji.

"Now," Hutuk's voice returned to its previous calm, yet carried more menace than any roar, "does anyone still think that two-tenths of our herds... can't be paid?"

No one answered. In the dead silence, only the sound of heavy, stifled breathing remained.

Wuliji felt Erdene's body trembling violently and his resistance fading. He slowly raised his eyes to meet Hutuk's meaningful gaze.

His eyes churned with stormy waves, then settled into a fathomless, ice-cold darkness.

Erdene slumped to the ground like a heap of mud, his eyes vacant, as if his soul had died along with his mother's.

Hutuk smiled in satisfaction. He knew he had achieved his goal.

Through the bloodiest, most direct means possible, he had crushed all possible resistance and snuffed out the last flicker of hope and any chance of alliance among these chiefs.

"Very well." He clapped his hands, as if none of that had ever happened. "Then the additional levy is decided.

Each tribe must deliver their herds to the royal court within three days. As for Chief Erdene..."

He glanced at the gradually cooling corpse on the ground and the son whose soul had fled, "In light of your loss, I grant your tribe a three-day extension."

"Now, you may all return." He waved his hand, as if shooing away a herd of worthless cattle. "Prepare well, and don't... disappoint me."

Hutuk's words 'Now, you may all return' hit like a pardon, and the chiefs, who had been barely able to breathe, felt as if they'd been granted amnesty.

They scrambled to their feet, heads bowed, eyes downcast, desperate to escape this blood-soaked, terror-filled golden tent.

Two fellow chiefs half-carried, half-dragged Erdene, who moved like a walking corpse.

But just as they shuffled forward, boots about to step over the still-wet pool of blood,

Wuliji remained seated, rock-still, not moving an inch.

At that, the chiefs who had just lifted their feet froze. Go? Or stay?

For a moment, they stood frozen, caught between going and staying, cold sweat beading on their foreheads.

The tent went dead silent, broken only by the occasional crackle of charcoal in the brazier and the faint wind outside.

Hutuk was about to savor the sight of them fleeing in shame and total submission, when his gaze swept the room and locked onto Wuliji.

The cruel satisfaction on his face quickly faded, replaced by a cold, dark frost.

He slowly turned back toward Wuliji, only a few steps between them, with the two cooling corpses and the stark pool of blood lying in between.

Their eyes met mid-air—no sparks flew, but there was a tangible weight pressing, colliding, pushing back.

The air was so taut it seemed to hum, a dangerous whiff of gunpowder spreading through the tent.

Hutuk suddenly twisted his lips into a stiff, hollow smile, breaking the dead silence:

"Chief Wuliji," his voice was not loud, but every word fell like ice pellets striking the ground, "is there something in what I said that you... don't understand?"

As he spoke, his hand on the sword hilt at his waist tightened almost imperceptibly.

Everyone in the tent held their breath, hearts in their throats, all eyes fixed on Wuliji's face.

Wuliji stayed silent, the lines of his face hard and cold in the flickering firelight, his deep eyes reflecting blood and flame yet utterly calm.

Finally, he spoke, his voice steady, not loud, but cutting clean through the dead air:

"The Uerha Tribe has no surplus livestock." He paused, his gaze unflinchingly meeting Hutuk's suddenly constricted pupils. "We've got nothing to give."

A sharp intake of breath—even though they'd expected it, when Wuliji actually said the refusal out loud, a stifled gasp still rippled through the tent.

The chiefs stared at Hutuk in horror, as if already foreseeing the bloodstorm about to erupt—worse than anything before.

The fake smile on Hutuk's face froze and shattered in an instant. A viciousness born of being deeply insulted slithered up to his eyes and brows like a viper, his whole face darkening as if it could drip water.

He leaned forward slightly, his voice squeezed from deep in his throat, hoarse with a metallic rasp:

"Chief Wuliji... it seems you have not understood my meaning."

He bit down hard on the words 'my meaning,' every syllable soaked in murderous intent.

"My meaning is clear enough." Wuliji said, and suddenly stood up!

His tall, burly frame rose like a small mountain suddenly heaving upward, the sheer pressure making several nearby royal guards instinctively step back half a step.

The two elite guards closest to Hutuk reacted in a flash—with a sharp "clang," gleaming curved blades whipped out, crossing in front of Hutuk, tips aimed straight at Wuliji.

Even Hutuk himself, under the pressure of Wuliji's almost savage build and suddenly erupting presence, couldn't help but lean back, his feet even shifting a little.

In the face of absolute strength and fearlessness, the so-called majesty of the Great Khan seemed to become somewhat fragile.

Yet Wuliji's gaze did not even linger on the glinting blade tips.

He looked past the steel, past the tense guards, directly at Hutuk's livid face, his voice still steady, yet carrying an unyielding force:

"I came here hoping the Great Khan would release the people. The livestock... can be made up at a later date."

He spoke with candor, as if stating the simplest fact, with no trace of pleading and not a shred of fear.

This calm firmness was more glaring and infuriating to Hutuk than any furious roar.

What he hated most were those he could not fully control, those who would not tremble in fear!

"You—!" Hutuk, provoked beyond endurance by his unyielding, even subtly commanding demeanor, was absolutely livid.