In a dense forest, a narrow path winds forward, the scent of blood lingering in the air. On this very path, a gruesome scene was unfolding. On the road between the shrubs and trees, a cargo carriage had overturned, spilling its contents. Surrounding the carriage lay the corpses of seven or eight soldiers, all dressed in identical uniforms—red tunics and black hats. Their lifeless eyes stared blankly, their bodies pierced by arrows and spears. Blood seeped from their wounds, soaking their garments and staining the earth. A short distance from the carriage, further from the soldiers, several other corpses were scattered—men dressed in work clothes, appearing to be laborers. They had all been shot in the back, seemingly killed while attempting to flee. Around the site of the massacre, several figures stood. Compared to the lifeless bodies on the ground, they bore strikingly different features. Unlike the fallen soldiers in their finely tailored uniforms, these people wore garments made of rough linen. Their clothing varied in style—some wore long robes, others short tunics—adorned with simple, abstract patterns that, upon closer inspection, depicted various animals. The edges of their garments were lined with small fringed tassels. All of them were young men with tan-brown skin and black hair. Many had their hair braided into long strands hanging down their backs, some adorned with headbands and vibrant feathers. Their faces bore intricate war paint, drawn with unknown pigments. Among them, a tall, muscular man stood bare-chested, a tattoo of a wild buffalo stretching across his back. He surveyed the bloody scene before speaking in a deep, resonant voice to his companions. "This is yet another victory. We have once again successfully ambushed these pale-skinned devils’ convoy. Without the guidance of the Wild Spirit, they are powerless in the wilderness. Do not fear past failures.” "Under the watchful eyes of the Great Spirit, we shall have our revenge. These devils will pay for their crimes in blood! We will drive them out—leave none alive!" "Ohhh!!!" The man’s shout was met with a fervent cheer from those around him. They raised their weapons high, their voices echoing through the trees. But amidst the celebration, one young man remained silent. He had long, unbound black hair and wore a short tunic embroidered with an eagle. His gaze lingered on the corpses of the slain laborers, his expression unreadable. His silence did not go unnoticed. The tall man turned to him, addressing him directly. "Kapak, is something wrong? You fought bravely just now—I saw you kill at least two of those pale-skinned devils. Why aren’t you celebrating our victory?" At the sound of his name, Kapak hesitated briefly before pointing toward the fallen laborers and speaking solemnly. "Sado, why did we kill them? They weren’t warriors. They surrendered and stopped resisting. You gestured for them to leave, but then had them shot in the back. That breaks our word." "We have no word to keep with these outsiders," Sado replied calmly. "I never spoke a single word to them—I only waved my hand. That is not a promise." Kapak frowned slightly but pressed on. "But we shouldn’t kill those who are no longer warriors, who have given up the fight. We’ve already won, haven’t we?" "Won? No, Kapak, victory alone is not enough," Sado said, his voice cold. "I want more than just victory—I want their blood. They’ve slaughtered our people a hundred times over. I won’t rest until we repay them a hundredfold. I want to wipe their towns off the map!" Gritting his teeth, Sado surveyed the carnage before him. Kapak, his expression heavy, responded in a measured tone. "Listen to me, Sado. I was once captured by those devils and enslaved in their cities. I worked in their factories and plantations. And let me tell you this—the pale-skins are just as cruel to their own kind.” "In their factories, they force their own lower-class people to work endlessly, day and night. People collapse and die from exhaustion. When I killed the factory owner and distributed his wealth to the workers, they helped me escape. Without them, I wouldn’t have made it back to our tribe. Those workers are just as much victims as we are." Sado waved his hand dismissively, his patience wearing thin. "Enough! I don’t care about the differences between those pale-skinned devils. All I know is that they came from across the sea, invaded our land, and slaughtered our people. I want nothing but their blood—a hundredfold!” "Remember this, Kapak. You are a warrior of the Tupa Tribe. You are forbidden from speaking a single word in defense of those pale devils. I’ll let this slide once, but if you do it again, I will punish you!" Sado’s stern warning left Kapak momentarily stunned. He fell silent. "Enough talk! Gather everything useful. Take the food and those fire-spitting sticks. Leave everything else behind!" At Sado’s command, the warriors sprang into action, looting the ambushed convoy. Their primary focus was food and firearms. As the warriors moved swiftly to collect their spoils, Kapak did the same. When he flipped over a soldier’s corpse to retrieve a rifle, something caught his eye beneath the body. It was a book—a small, blue-covered booklet. Thin and barely larger than a palm, it was more of a pamphlet than a proper book. Kapak’s curiosity was piqued. He flipped through it briefly, his eyes lighting up. Glancing around to ensure no one was watching, he discreetly tucked it away. Once the battlefield was cleared, the warriors began their journey home, using the surviving horses from the convoy to carry their spoils. They traveled for three to four hours through the wilderness, finally reaching the Tupa tribe’s encampment by afternoon. A vast settlement of tents and makeshift shelters sprawled before them. The people of the tribe—men and women, young and old—gathered to greet them. Many were emaciated, their faces weary. Under their eager gazes, Sado loudly recounted their "hunt" and how many pale-skinned devils they had slain. After the celebration, the warriors disbanded. Freed from the group, Kapak hurried back to his tent. Inside the dimly lit space, he quickly scanned his surroundings before crouching near his bedding. He opened a wooden chest at the bedside. Inside the chest lay an assortment of items: pocket watches, wristwatches, pistols, small statues, canes, glass bottles, top hats—all trinkets of industrial civilization. These were Kapak’s personal collection. His time in the city had sparked a fascination with the very civilization that had invaded their homeland, a sentiment few among his tribe shared. Under Sado’s leadership, the tribe rejected industrial goods—except for firearms, which were simply too useful to discard. Kapak rummaged through the chest before pulling out a gas lamp. He lit it, casting a warm glow across the tent. Then, settling onto his bedding, he retrieved the small booklet he had hidden earlier. It contained illustrations and text he couldn’t understand. The pages were filled with sequentially arranged black-ink drawings, seemingly telling a story. Though he couldn’t read the words, he found himself engrossed in the images. As he reached the final blank page, his eyes caught a peculiar detail. A single handwritten word—distinct from the printed text before it. A word in the Pritt Common language. A word that meant—"Knowledge."