Within the Golden Horde of the Salem Tribal Center, the newly promoted tribal chieftain, who had just been sworn in less than a month ago, was entrenched in it.

Perhaps to avoid a repeat of the tragedy that had happened here before, two squads of tribal warriors were waiting at the door. But unlike the old chief Hajar, who could easily call out each of the guards by name and always liked to gossip with them, the young king of the elven tribe always sat on the throne in the deepest part of the tent with a heavy heart, and sat all day long.

"It's also hard for poor Harkonam, who had just lost his brother who had grown up with him, and then his father, who had sheltered him from the wind and rain. ”

The samurai captain on duty couldn't help but sigh in his heart, but then his mind was drawn to a vulture that circled and landed from the sky. This flat-haired beast is a common postman in the desert, and only needs a few pieces of fresh meat to allow it to travel hundreds of miles to deliver messages to those in need.

Beckoning the others to continue to be on guard, the samurai captain untied the fire-lacquered letterbox from the eagle's leg. In doing so, he had been careful about the big bird next to him, lest it take itself as food because of hunger and suddenly peck at him—he had a few not-so-good memories before, so he didn't have much of a good impression of the grumpy postman.

After examining the letter box and making sure that the fire seal was still intact, the samurai captain handed over the work of feeding the eagle vultures to the other samurai, and he turned and strode into the felt cloth in front of the golden tent. The newly appointed young chief sat on a throne in the deepest part of the tent, one hand resting on his forehead on the table in front of him. Harkonan, sensing that someone had entered the tent, immediately stood up, and only when he could see the face of the person who had come could he lower his hand from the handle of the scimitar at his side.

"Great Khan, there is a message for your Flying Eagle. The samurai captain had apparently seen Huck's movements as well, but he remained calm and composed, and held the letter with both hands. Only after receiving permission to retire on his own did the samurai captain bow down and withdraw from the golden horde of the slightly emaciated chieftain.

Harkonnen picked up the knife he had used to unseal the paint, and with a careful touch, he scraped the paint off the edge of the letterbox, and with a slight knock, he dumped the letter on the desk in front of him.

"Chief Harkonan's ......"

The letter begins with a message that upsets the young chieftain, who believes that he has inherited the power of his predecessor, the leader of the Salem tribe, Hajar Otto, and naturally inherits his ambition to become the co-ruler of all the Desert Elves. He continued the clan's habit of exaggerating chieftains as Khans, but unexpectedly, his pride was hurt by the Coptic Assassin Guild, a "villain's abode" from the depths of the desert.

One letter, two messages. One is very ordinary good news, and the other is very bad news. The good news is that the "decent" tailor has successfully killed Epicurus, the head of the Chamber of Commerce, and his head will soon be sent to the Golden Horde court of the Salem tribe, while the bad news is that another assassination commission has gone wrong, and the Assassin Guild will return the prepaid commission and indemnity along with Epicurus's head.

An enraged young chief tossed the letter in the air, drew his scimitar and slashed the letter into four pieces before it could hit the ground—the "Cross Slash", a combat skill given to him by Bradge, except that the samurai who Harkonan had wanted to take his head could cut the letter into sixteen pieces in the same amount of time.

"Don't be blindly angry, especially when anger comes from the emotion of fear. You have to remember that fear is the killer of thoughts, and fear is the little death that brings total destruction......"

A warm voice rang out in the young chief's brain. Although Harkonnam had tried several times to dismiss the advice that a voice had given him, he would eventually be defeated by this kind of voice and follow his instructions with pleasure and sincerity.

Now, plunge the sharp knife into his father, Khan Hajir?? This is true of Otto's heart, and the same is true of framing his master Brache for the crime of killing the king.

Although he had been persuaded by the sound too many times, Harkonnen still remembered the first time he heard it.

Redeemed from the dragon by his own master (he doesn't admit to losing to a profit-seeking merchant leader), Harkonnen's self-esteem from an early age suffers a huge blow.

As the son of a failed chieftain, he received more disdain than the others upon returning to the Salem tribe. Although he was not flogged because of his noble birth, he was nevertheless placed on the dirty and dangerous work that only lowly slaves were forced to do—he was personally assigned by Hajir Khan to oversee the reproduction of the "fiery beasts".

The chief's son, once the youngest Grand Samurai of the Salem Tribe, has been toiling in the Shadowmon's production lair every day with his unbridled slaves.

They need to put various materials into the sac-like cavities that are used for the growth and development of the Shadowmon larvae, and they also need to use sticks to teach the young beasts that have just emerged from the cocoon and are not yet under the control of the Elven High Chieftain's Beast Heart to simply obey the rules.

It was the hardest time in Harkonnen's life, even a hundred times more difficult than the previous training from that stern master.

In addition to the hard labor he endured every day, he had to breathe in the indescribably foul air inside the nest of birth, and be careful not to be burned by the blazing heat of the "stick education" cubs. On more than one occasion, he had witnessed slaves doing the same work as him fall under siege by the Shadowy Cubs, only to end up in a miserable fate of charcoal in human form.

This agony continued until one day, when a newly-emerged Shadowmon hatchling delivered him a hedron that had been in its mouth before it was born.

The cub was much stronger than its kind, but it didn't have the violent tendencies of the other newborn beasts to attack wildly. It just quietly walked over to Harkonnen's side, spat out the faint glow of the hedron in its mouth, and then silently turned away.

When the servitude chieftain's son almost picked up the crystals spit out by the Shadow Cub, he wasn't burned as he thought he would—he had seen many slaves who had made similar careless mistakes.

The crystal was held in the palm of his hand, just right for his grip, and a pleasant slight heat spread from the junction of the palm and the crystal to his whole body. It's like a kind of luxury called a steam bath that Harkonan had experienced before, and the precious water resources of the desert are reduced to the softness of steam. It not only soothes the tiredness, but also infiltrates the soul.

It was also at that moment that his mental defenses were broken by the ancient consciousness hidden in this hedrome. At first it was just a small piece of whispering that stirred the chief's son's heart, but Harkonnen didn't realize that it was the hedron at work, he only thought it was a self-talk in his heart caused by his overwork.

But as these words gradually turned into suggestions, Harkonnen began to feel that someone was talking to him among the hedrons he had carried with him since that day—he knew that he could not come up with a cure for his current predicament by his own intelligence, and that he could not come up with a clever plan to lead his soldiers to victory over the tribe of Sashan.

"Who are you, why are you hiding here, what do you want to do to me?"

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Sogou