Chapter 13
Chapter 13
-----------------------------------------------------------------
Translator: penny
Chapter: 13
Chapter Title: From Primitive Era Chieftain to Space Era Emperor
-----------------------------------------------------------------
A fierce cold snap struck the tribe.
Judging by the various signs, it was definitely the Little Ice Age.
The sky's color changed several times a day.
When the sun rose, it seemed somewhat bearable, only for clouds to suddenly gather and dump heavy snow.
If we hadn't been in the highlands, movement would have been impossible altogether.
The river ice was now so thick that we no longer worried about its depth.
Ice surging up from below shallow ground, migratory birds turning back mid-flight.
This was no ordinary winter chill.
'Such phenomena don't even appear in the records.'
There were accounts of the Little Ice Age hitting during the Joseon Dynasty, freezing countless people to death.
I suspected it was even worse now than back then.
If the tribe had been larger, the damage would have been devastating.
Yet we endured.
That harshness might have even forged our bonds stronger.
"If not for the chieftain, we'd all be dead."
"Right. If we'd tried wintering in caves, fire would have been essential, but we'd probably have suffocated."
People of this era lived with death on their lips, casually assuming they'd drop dead at any moment.
It wasn't hyperbole; such tragedies were commonplace.
Proper houses and hearths had played a tremendous role.
Thanks to the refugees, our food stores brimmed with fish—at least.
Parasites?
Even entertaining that thought was an unimaginable luxury.
Women began falling pregnant one by one.
Meanwhile, White Flame remained utterly silent—no news.
She was the chieftain's woman.
No other men had touched her, so it could only be me or her who was infertile.
Or perhaps difficulty conceiving.
I had one strong hunch.
Living beings strive to reproduce because they know death looms someday.
Through death, superior genes persist, species grow stronger.
What if death itself never came?
The body would deem gene transmission unnecessary, rendering reproduction difficult.
That was just my theory, though. Every night, White Flame wrung me dry like a relentless taskmaster.
As the cold deepened, fishing was just about the only task left.
Chopping wood or traveling afar became impossible.
Conversations naturally multiplied.
Around the fire, we swapped knowledge at every opportunity.
The perfect time to plan a war.
From refugees seeping into our tribe, I learned the Upstream Tribe's scale.
"Total of 200? Warriors?"
"Around 50."
"That's a lot."
They nodded.
"They cast out the weak like us. And endlessly absorb other tribes."
Cruel, but a survival-optimized strategy.
Dump the frail, transfuse constant fresh blood.
In this food-scarce era, though, growth hit hard limits.
Yellow Hand and Quick Hand sketched maps from refugees' memories.
Village layouts, crude barricades, hut counts, night watches—everything.
We prepared meticulously because our warriors numbered half theirs.
Including boys on the cusp of adulthood (15 years).
It looked disadvantageous at a glance, but the warriors who'd honed group tactics all winter spoke as one.
"It's possible."
Red Rock's verdict.
He was the type to call impossible if it truly was.
Had he said no, we'd have targeted smaller tribes first.
I turned to Quick Hand.
"Your thoughts?"
"Watching Whirlwind Tribe train felt like my balls hit the dirt. No one can kill Whirlwind Tribe."
Possible, in other words.
We resolved to refine our strategy through winter.
Of course, with such advanced weapons and tactics, a frontal breakthrough seemed likely.
Spring strode in boldly.
Warm winds blew, making the brutal winter feel like a lie.
We dismantled all the fishing huts.
Every material slated for full recycle—no waste.
Hunting resumed as new buds sprouted on willow tips.
Women filled foraging baskets with tender purslane leaves, wild garlic, and roots.
Smoking racks, dormant all winter, fired up again.
Around then, good news arrived.
"Whirlwind! Is this wheat?"
White Flame held up a basket.
Long awns and twisted grains filled it.
Ears of wild wheat and barley, mixed.
Women rubbed seeds loose with fingers all day, winnowing chaff into the wind.
"Lots have sprouted."
"Doesn't matter."
Sprouted ones for eating or malting, unsprouted for seed.
'Liquor.'
What if I could brew beer in this era?
Pipedream for now, but whiskey?
Mouth already watering.
Such grand ambitions(?) demanded desperate labor.
We sorted the gathered grains.
Brief water soak: sprouted grains float, dormant ones sink.
Floaters for porridge, beer, rice; sinkers for planting.
White Flame led the women, directing from foraging to sorting, drying, storage.
They obeyed without a peep.
They knew it too.
White Flame had risen as the household mistress, overseeing domestic affairs.
Aware like a power-holder's wife, she commanded them—a remarkable evolution.
That evening, leaf-steamed wheat grains arrived.
Tribe members gasped at their first taste of grain.
"To think this is edible!"
"Amazing discovery!"
"Tch. Not a discovery—the chieftain's brilliant!"
As usual, Red Rock chimed in, Eagle's Eye snapping back.
I felt it anew too.
'Mixed wheat and barley rice! Taste no match for modern, but this alone will skyrocket population.'
Certain.
Humanity exploded upon embracing agriculture.
Chest swelled knowing I sparked that history.
But joy faded fast.
Expanding fields en masse made the labor shortage glaringly obvious to all.
Rabbits topped 60, hundreds imminent.
Needed dedicated tenders, surplus managers, warehouse guards.
Even finest storehouses fell to rats and bugs gnawing surpluses.
Construction onward demanded hordes of labor, turning war from choice to necessity.
Even executives urged it first in council.
"Whirlwind! No more delays. Without growth, we'll work ourselves to death."
"Red Rock's right this time! I respect the chieftain, but advance now."
I nodded to them.
"War in one week."
All winter, we'd poured effort into upgrading arms and armor.
Sharpening our blades for war, literally.
Labor shortage bit even then.
Shields got top focus.
Even primitive scutums.
In essence, relentless research and production birthed round shields.
Thinning wood? Manageable somehow.
Bending? Possible, but shape retention demanded steam-bending slow.
Fiendishly tough process and skill.
Three cross-plied layers atop.
One vertical, next horizontal, last diagonal.
Thin glue between: tendon paste, pitch, fat, charcoal powder mix.
During drying, leather rim cinched edges; trimmed protruding fibers with sharp shells.
Shrinking leather rim clamped it tight.
Thus, labor and skill forged scutums.
Excruciatingly intensive—only four—but ample to shield the front.
Beyond that.
Quick Hand overhauled weapons broadly.
Bows gained sinew backing on ash staves; strings twisted from water-soaked, dried Achilles tendons.
Bindings wrapped thin leather for gradual stretch.
Power leaped markedly.
Eagle's Eye's rangers lost their minds, naturally.
Bone knives and javelins improved too, but most devastating? Long spears, hands down.
We crafted 3-meterers.
Selected straight yew and ash; spliced shorts with sinew and pitch.
Tips not stone—composite bone-wood, drawn long and slender.
Insane tech alone; I had the knowledge, not the hands.
Quick Hand, tribe's lifelong tech slave, owned it.
Warfare revolution.
Midwinter salt scarcity dinged durability, but I was certain it'd reshape the battlefield.
Long spears enabled phalanx formation.
Overtech madness for primitive era.
Not enough? All kitted in leather armor to boot.
No way we'd lose.