The Ultimate Skill System: Absorb, Upgrade, Create, Transfer-Chapter 45 - : Harheim

The sun hung high over the vast grasslands of Fiora, casting a golden glow across the sprawling settlement of Harheim.

The grasslands stretched endlessly, a sea of green and gold swaying gently in the breeze. The air was filled with the scent of wildflowers and the distant hum of insects.

Nestled between jagged, spiky mountains and a roaring river, the Harengons tribe's home was a fortress of nature and ingenuity.

The mountains loomed like ancient guardians, their peaks piercing the clouds, while the river churned with a ferocity that echoed the tribe's unyielding spirit.

The settlement itself was a marvel of craftsmanship and strategy. Thick stone walls, reinforced with towering trees, encircled the community. The trees were ancient, their roots intertwined with the stones, creating a living barrier that seemed almost impenetrable.

Each wall was crowned with sharp spikes, a clear warning to any who dared to approach with ill intent.

Watchtowers dotted the perimeter, manned by sharp-eyed sentinels who scanned the horizon for signs of danger.

Beyond the walls, the settlement bustled with life. Wooden huts with thatched roofs lined cobblestone streets, and the air was filled with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the occasional clang of a blacksmith's hammer.

At the heart of Harheim stood a grand castle, its tall spires piercing the sky. The castle was a symbol of the tribe's strength and unity, its stone walls adorned with intricate carvings depicting the tribe's history and victories.

Banners bearing the emblem of the Harengon—a leaping rabbit against a crescent moon—fluttered in the breeze.

The castle's gates were massive, reinforced with iron and guarded by warriors clad in leather armor. Inside, the halls were spacious and filled with the scent of burning incense. Tapestries depicting scenes of battles and celebrations hung from the walls, and the floors were polished to a shine.

The Harengons were a unique people—humanoids with the features of rabbits. Their long, twitching ears and fluffy tails were unmistakable, and their agility and speed were unmatched.

They moved with a grace that seemed almost otherworldly, their steps light and silent. Their fur came in a variety of colors, from snowy white to deep black, and their eyes were large and expressive, reflecting their emotions with startling clarity.

Despite facing countless wars, their numbers never dwindled. Their ability to reproduce quickly was both a blessing and a curse. While it ensured their survival, it also made them a target for slavers and warlords.

They were often captured and used as sacrifices, cannon fodder in battles, or even as suicide assassins. Yet, the Harengon of Harheim had endured.

Inside the castle, in a grand hall adorned with banners and trophies of past victories, sat Segrand Harheim, the aging lord of the tribe.

His once-vibrant fur had turned gray, and his movements were slower, but his eyes still burned with the fire of a leader who had seen it all.

He leaned back in his ornate chair, his ears twitching slightly as he listened to the distant sounds of his bustling settlement.

The chair itself was a masterpiece, carved from the wood of an ancient oak and cushioned with the finest fabrics. Behind him, a large window offered a view of the settlement, the sunlight streaming in and casting a warm glow over the room.

The peace was interrupted when the double doors of the hall swung open. A messenger, panting and covered in dust, rushed in and immediately dropped to one knee.

His fur was matted with sweat, and his breathing was labored, as if he had run a great distance. "My lord," the messenger began, his voice urgent, "we have received reports that an army of demons is marching toward us."

Segrand's ears perked up, and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. "Again?" he said, his voice a mix of annoyance and amusement. "Haven't they learned their lesson yet?"

The messenger hesitated before continuing. "This time, my lord, their numbers are far greater. They are led by ten Tenebros."

Segrand's expression shifted from calm to concern. His ears drooped slightly, and his grip tightened on the arms of his chair. "Ten Tenebros? That can't be," he muttered, more to himself than to the messenger.

The Tenebros were fearsome demon captains, each capable of leading armies and wreaking havoc. Facing one was a challenge; facing ten was a nightmare.

Before Segrand could say more, the doors opened again, and a young Harengon strode in confidently.

His black, flowing hair framed his sharp features, and his noble attire, complete with a sword at his hip, marked him as someone of importance.

This was Ismael Harheim, Segrand's firstborn son and the pride of the tribe. His fur was a rich, dark brown, and his eyes sparkled with a confidence that bordered on arrogance. He moved with the grace of a warrior, his every step deliberate and assured.

[Uncommon: Stormhare — Level 43.]

Ismael approached his father and knelt respectfully. "Father," he said, his voice steady and filled with determination. "Let me lead our army once more. Ten Tenebros may sound daunting, but they are nothing compared to our might. I will drive the demons back and protect our people, just as I have done before."

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Segrand's worried expression softened, and a proud smile spread across his face. "Of course, my son," he said, his voice warm. "I have no doubt you will succeed."

Ismael stood, his chest swelling with pride. "You can count on me to protect our people and my sisters from the threat looming beyond our walls," he declared. "Because that's what heroes do."

The hall erupted in applause and cheers. The Harengon guards and servants clapped enthusiastically, their faith in Ismael unwavering. He had proven himself time and again, and they believed he would do so once more. The sound of their applause echoed through the hall.

But the celebration was short-lived. Another messenger burst into the hall, this one holding a rolled-up piece of paper. He knelt before Segrand, holding out the letter. "My lord," he said, "I received this message from a hawk."

Segrand raised an eyebrow. "A hawk? From whom?"

The messenger unrolled the paper and began to read. "This is a message from the nation of Casimiro. Their ruler, Keiran Graywood, extends his hand in friendship and offers to aid us in the fight against the demon army. His forces consist of two tribes—the Lionkin and the Cervitaurs."

Before the messenger could finish, Ismael stepped forward and snatched the letter from his hands. With a swift motion, he tore it into pieces, his expression darkening.

"Lionkin?" he spat, his voice filled with disdain. "The curse of Fiora? And Cervitaurs? Write a letter and send it back with the hawk. Tell them we don't need their help. We will crush the demons ourselves."

The messenger bowed his head and quickly retreated, leaving the hall in tense silence.

Ismael turned to his father, his eyes blazing with determination. "We have driven away countless enemies in the past," he said. "The Lionkin could not conquer us, and the demons have never breached our walls. We don't need their help. Let them watch as I, the hero of Harheim, defeat the darkness once and for all."

Segrand nodded slowly, though a flicker of doubt crossed his eyes. He trusted his son, but the thought of facing ten Tenebros was daunting. Still, he said nothing, allowing Ismael to take charge.

As Ismael left the hall to prepare the army, Segrand remained in his chair, deep in thought. The weight of leadership pressed heavily on his shoulders. He knew the stakes were higher than ever, and the decisions he made now would determine the fate of his people.

Outside, the settlement buzzed with activity. Warriors sharpened their weapons, the sound of metal against stone filling the air. Families gathered to bid their loved ones farewell, their faces a mix of pride and fear.

The Harengons had faced many challenges before, and they were ready to face this one head-on.

High above, the hawk that had delivered the message circled the castle once before flying off into the distance, carrying with it the reply from Harheim.

Far away, in the nation of Casimiro, Keiran Graywood awaited the response, his own plans hinging on the Harengons's decision.