In A Fantasy World I Can Absorbs Abilities

The temporary encampment of the Pamir Empire was eerily quiet, broken only by the labored breaths of the starving soldiers. Nestled in the middle of the barren plains, the tents that made up the camp were a pitiful sight—hardly befitting a place where the Empire's Crown Prince Oswald and the five tribal chieftains gathered.

Inside the largest tent, Oswald and the chieftains sat around a makeshift table, their faces gaunt and haggard from over a week of starvation. The Crown Prince himself, once the embodiment of imperial grandeur, now looked like a shadow of his former self. His once-pristine ceremonial uniform was soiled with dirt, and the medals on his chest, once symbols of glory, now seemed to mock his misery. His pale, trembling hands rested on the table, betraying his exhaustion and despair.

Oswald's gaze shifted to the tribal leaders surrounding him. These men, once proud representatives of their clans, sat in sullen silence, their eyes hollow with defeat. The air inside the tent was damp and suffocating, carrying the faint, acrid stench of rotting horse bones—the remnants of the steeds they had been forced to slaughter for sustenance.

Yandor, the chieftain of the Stone Bear tribe, finally broke the silence. His voice was weary, his words laden with despair.

"It's been nearly a week since the supplies were destroyed."

The leaders nodded grimly. The Stone Bear warriors, known for their massive builds, struggled the most with hunger. But no tribe was spared from the ravages of starvation. Once-mighty soldiers had grown weak, their ferocity dulled by exhaustion.

Kanta, the Lion Paw chieftain, let out a bitter laugh.

"They're trying to starve us to death."

His voice was a mixture of anger and resignation. "How much longer must we endure this?"

The soldiers, too afraid to sleep deeply, remained on constant alert, scanning the plains for signs of the enemy. Days were spent patrolling, while nights were haunted by the looming threat of a surprise attack. The soldiers' eyes, once sharp with determination, now reflected only despair.

Worse still, the hunger had driven some to butcher their horses. The first soldiers caught slaughtering the animals had been publicly executed, their deaths intended as a deterrent. But hunger proved a far stronger force than fear. The horses' numbers dwindled as soldiers secretly continued to kill and consume them, and the commanders eventually gave up trying to enforce the ban. The once-proud whinnies of the horses had been replaced by a deathly silence.

Kisha, the chieftain of the Red Serpent tribe, hissed with rage. His snake-like eyes gleamed with malice.

"The cowards from the allied tribes have all fled."

He was referring to the auxiliary tribes that had been stationed on the outskirts of the camp. By the time the chaos had been contained, more than half of them had deserted. The rest vanished within days, leaving the camp even more vulnerable.

"They were just leeches, consuming our supplies," spat Petan, the Boar Hog chieftain, his voice dripping with disdain. "Good riddance."

Petan sneered, his words cutting through the tense atmosphere. He believed the auxiliary tribes had been a liability from the start—dead weight that only drained resources without contributing anything of value.

But Oswald saw things differently. Even weak allies were still soldiers, and their absence was a blow to their numbers. After a long silence, he finally spoke, his voice heavy with resignation.

"There is no way out of this."

The tent fell deathly silent. The chieftains exchanged uneasy glances, waiting for him to continue. After a pause, Oswald spoke again, his tone even more somber.

"We must plan for our survival. We will flee to the nearest stronghold."

The words hung in the air like a death knell. The chieftains were visibly shaken, though none of them seemed surprised.

"And how do you plan to transport all these soldiers?" Falcon, one of the chieftains, finally asked, his voice cautious. "We barely have enough supplies for ourselves. The enemy will harry us every step of the way."

Oswald's reply was as cold as the air inside the tent.

"We won't take them. We'll leave the soldiers and the grounded beasts behind. Only we and a select few will escape."

A shocked murmur rippled through the tent. His words were brutal, but no one dared to voice outright opposition. Deep down, they had all considered the same option. It was cruel, but survival demanded ruthlessness.

Kanta, the Lion Paw chieftain, broke the silence. His voice was resolute, though his eyes betrayed the shadow of despair.

"I support this plan. Soldiers can be replaced. We cannot."

The chieftains fell into a heavy silence, the weight of their collective guilt and desperation pressing down on them.

In the suffocating quiet, the flickering light of the campfire seemed to mirror the dimming hope in their hearts.

Kanta's statement echoed in the tent, drawing every eye toward him. His words carried an undeniable selfishness, but none could refute him. Everyone knew his words were grounded in truth. Kanta had merely voiced what they all were thinking—only the leaders, those who represented their tribes, were worth saving.

The tent fell into another heavy silence. The dire state of the camp had forced even the strongest to consider unthinkable choices. With soldiers starving and morale in ruins, the idea of escaping with the entire army was nothing but a delusion. The grim faces of the chieftains reflected their shared understanding: survival required sacrifice. They were prepared to abandon the majority of their soldiers if it meant securing their own lives. For them, survival wasn't just personal—it was the survival of their tribes and the continuation of the war itself.

They exchanged subtle glances, their expressions betraying that they had already reached a consensus.

From the back Miaomiao, Michael watched the Pamir Empire's temporary camp with a tense expression. His Special Operations Unit surrounded him in a tight formation, their sharp gazes scanning the horizon, ready to act at a moment's notice. In the skies above, Marcus and the gargoyles hovered like storm clouds, their every wingbeat charged with anticipation. A week had passed, and now the time for resolution had arrived.