He turned toward Chief Igris, who was observing the departing geniuses with his usual calm.

"When are we heading inside?" Max asked, his voice steady but carrying a trace of anticipation.

Chief Igris looked at him and answered with the same composure he always carried. "We wait for the arrival of the current Tribal Lord," he said slowly. "Only at his command are we permitted to enter the den of the Devouring Ants. Until then, we remain here."

Max nodded, though his curiosity deepened. The Tribal Lord—the one who ruled over all the dwarven villages—was a figure of mystery to him. He had heard the title before, but never met the one who bore it. If this person held the authority to decide when the trial began, then their power must be something extraordinary.

The atmosphere of the gathering shifted once again as the dwarves murmured quietly among themselves. Every village's warriors seemed to stand taller now, their eyes fixed toward the horizon beyond the basin. The anticipation in the air grew heavy, like the moment before a storm breaks.

Max waited patiently at the plateau with the others, though his mind had already begun to wander. The faint hum of anticipation around him could not distract him from the thoughts swirling in his head.

He looked out across the vast violet wasteland and wondered what would come next once this trial was complete. The truth was that he knew very little about this secret domain. No elder or leader had given him a map or any proper guidance about what lay beyond this trial.

The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little anyone seemed to know. The secret domain was unlike any ordinary world. It was said to change every time it opened, its lands shifting like waves upon the ocean.

The mountains, rivers, and trial sites that once existed in one place might appear miles away or vanish entirely during the next opening. Maps, therefore, were useless. Even the most detailed ones drawn by past participants became nothing more than meaningless parchment once the domain reset itself.

Max's curiosity deepened. If he somehow survived this trial and earned the Holy Nectar, what then? Where would he go? What other trials awaited within this strange realm? The uncertainty was unsettling, but it also stirred something within him—a faint thrill of adventure and the promise of discovery.

After thinking quietly for a few moments, he turned toward Chief Igris, who stood a few steps away, conversing with some of his warriors. "Chief," Max said, breaking the silence between them. "I've been wondering about something. You and your people have lived in this secret domain for generations, haven't you? Do you know about any other trial sites here?"

Chief Igris turned his gaze toward Max, his thick brows lifting slightly before a faint smile spread across his face. "Of course I know," he said, his voice carrying both pride and mystery. "My people have walked this land since the day we were created. Every cliff, every cavern, every ruin holds a memory of our kind. But knowledge is not always free."

He paused, studying Max's expression before continuing. "You must first help me claim the title of Tribal Lord. Once I sit upon that throne, I will take you to those trial sites myself. Until then, it is not my place to speak of them."

Max nodded slowly, accepting the answer. Though he had hoped for a little more information, he was relieved nonetheless. If what Chief Igris said was true, then once he completed this trial, he would not be lost or wandering aimlessly. The dwarves would guide him, and that gave him a sense of direction he had not realized he needed.

Satisfied for now, Max turned his attention back to the horizon. The air had grown heavier, almost expectant, as though the wasteland itself sensed what was about to come. The murmurs among the giant dwarves grew quieter, their movements slowing until they all stood in solemn silence. The very ground seemed to hum faintly beneath their feet.

And then, in the distance, a sound began to rise. It was faint at first, like the rolling of distant thunder, but it grew louder with each passing second. The sound was rhythmic, deliberate, and unyielding. The dwarves straightened in their ranks, their weapons resting firmly in their hands, their gazes fixed ahead.

From the far side of the basin, through the swirling violet mist, a towering figure emerged. His steps were slow but thunderous, each one shaking the ground slightly as if the earth itself acknowledged his presence.

He was clad in heavy, ancient armor blackened by time, the surface etched with countless runes that glowed faintly with a golden hue. On his back hung a massive war hammer larger than any Max had ever seen, its head carved with the markings of the dwarven gods.

Chief Igris immediately dropped to one knee, lowering his head respectfully, and the rest of the dwarves followed without hesitation. Their deep voices echoed in unison, chanting a single title with reverence.

"Tribal Lord."

The air trembled under the weight of their devotion.

Max remained standing but bowed his head slightly in respect, his gaze locked on the figure approaching through the mist. There was no need for introduction. The power radiating from the being was overwhelming. His very presence seemed to pull at the world around him, bending the air with the gravity of authority and strength.

The Tribal Lord of the Giant Dwarven Tribe had arrived.

The sound of the dwarves' chant faded into silence as the towering figure came to a halt at the center of the clearing. The mist swirled gently around him, revealing the full majesty of his presence.

His armor was unlike any other Max had seen among the dwarves. It was ancient yet immaculate, forged from obsidian-black metal that shimmered faintly in the violet light of the wasteland. The runes engraved across its surface pulsed with a golden glow that seemed to respond to his heartbeat.

A long crimson cloak hung from his broad shoulders, tattered at the edges but still regal in its weight. His beard, thick and braided with golden rings, reached down to his chest, while his eyes gleamed like molten amber beneath his heavy brow. Every breath he took exuded strength and age—a being forged not only through countless battles but through centuries of unwavering endurance.

When he finally spoke, his voice carried across the wasteland with a deep, commanding resonance that silenced even the faint winds. "Raise your heads, children of stone and flame," he said, his gaze sweeping over the kneeling dwarves. "You have done well to prepare. The time of the Trial has come once again."

He looked at the village chiefs of every village and the respective champions before commanding. His deep voice left no room for hesitation or fear. "I won't take any of your time. All of you, enter the den!"

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