Predator Mothership, Hunting Command Center.
Across the cold metallic decking, the fruits of the young bloods' recent hunts were displayed one by one. They were meticulously cleaned and processed trophies—dozens of bleached skeletons, neatly arranged before the Elder.
Every single trophy strictly adhered to the traditional craftsmanship of the Predators: the prey's skull was harvested completely intact, remaining attached to its primary spinal column to form a complete, savage icon symbolizing execution and conquest.
The craniums of various beasts from planet Pandora—ranging from agile viperwolves to ferocious sload hounds, and up to the significantly larger hexapedes—displayed vastly different skeletal structures, yet all had been processed until immaculate, manifesting as cold, dry bone. Interspersed among these beast bones were sporadic "collectibles" carrying slightly more significance: several human skulls belonging to standard RDA soldiers, connected to a short segment of cervical vertebrae; and a few elongated, blue skulls from Na'vi hunters, similarly attached to their distinct, slender neck bones.
While these physical trophies were substantial in number and diverse in classification, under the Elder's demanding scrutiny, they still lacked a truly weighty "testament of honor." There were no skeletons of peak apex predators capable of testing a hunter's prowess, nor were there skulls of heavily equipped, masterfully skilled warriors.
The display before him was nothing more than a selection of appetizers. It could by no means wash clean the disgrace brought by Celtic's demise, nor could it sate the Blood-Blade Clan's thirst for true glory.
"Worthless!" A low, suffocatingly oppressive rumble finally shattered the silence, rolling through the chamber like muffled thunder. "This is the culmination of your extensive honing? Filling your trophy racks with the bones of these lesser organisms? Since when has the honor of the Blood-Blade Clan become so cheap!"
His gaze whipped across the bowing young bloods like a physical lash.
"Celtic's death remains unavenged, the clan's disgrace is unwashed, yet you content yourselves with trapping small beasts in the undergrowth? It appears complacency and underestimating the enemy have corroded your hunter's hearts."
He spun around sharply, locking his gaze onto the five veteran warriors who had remained standing in solemn silence.
"The young bloods' trial demands a more merciless guidance. It is time these fledglings witness what a true hunt looks like—what devastation truly means."
"Elder, your directive?" a veteran warrior bearing six deep claw-scores carved across his shoulder guard rumbled.
"We enter the field in person," the Elder's voice carried zero emotion. "Select an appropriate Na'vi settlement as the vector. Let them remember the cost of offending the Blood-Blade Clan through blood and terror. And let our young bloods observe how a proper harvesting sequence is executed."
The mandate was rapidly pushed down.
An assault craft specially retrofitted with superior cloaking capabilities quietly detached from the mothership. Carrying the Elder, three blooded warriors, and two young bloods selected to shadow and observe, it shot toward Pandora's dense canopy like a lethal stinger.
Their objective was a small Na'vi settlement named "Song of the Valley," situated at the peripheral boundary of the Omaticaya's sphere of influence. The village was nestled against a clear waterfall stream, hosting a population of roughly a hundred. They primarily sustained themselves by fishing and harvesting bioluminescent moss; their warrior complement was small, and their societal baseline was relatively peaceful.
The assault craft landed in a concealed mountain hollow several kilometers from the village. The Elder's detail glided into the jungle like phantoms, their movements swift and silent. Even the most seasoned Na'vi hunter would have struggled to perceive their approach.
As dusk fell, tendrils of cooking smoke rose from the Song of the Valley. Children played among the aerial roots hanging from the village Hometree, women processed the day's forage, and hunters returned from the canopy in small groups, sharing the day's haul. It was a picture of absolute serenity.
Yet, the shadow of death had already enveloped them.
The Elder gestured, and the three blooded warriors fanned out instantly like hounds unleashed from their tethers. Exploiting their cloaking fields and the heavy vegetation, they quietly infiltrated the village perimeter from three distinct vectors.
They neutralized the outer lookouts first. The Na'vi hunters holding watch never even managed to raise an alarm before their heads were sheared away by precisely thrown smart-discs, or their hearts pierced by silent wrist blades.
By the time a piercing cry of alarm was finally unleashed by a Na'vi who discovered a companion's corpse, the slaughter was already underway.
The hiss of plasma shoulder cannons replaced the gentle evening breeze. Superheated energy beams discharged in precise bursts, snapping down the male Na'vi warriors charging out from the Hometree with longbows and bone spears. The impact sites carbonized instantly, leaving no time for blood to even well forth. Wrist blades and combi-sticks manifested terrifying efficiency in close-quarters combat; the resilient hide and skeletal structure of the Na'vi were entirely brittle before offworld alloys.
The engagement—or rather, the culling—erupted with sudden, violent intensity. The Na'vi warriors resisted courageously, shouting Eywa's name as they loosed longbows and hurled bone spears, but the majority of their strikes missed entirely or merely left shallow scores across the Predators' hardened armor plates. The generational disparity between their respective technology and combat experience was laid bare at this moment.
The Elder himself abstained from active killing. He navigated the chaotic settlement as if strolling through a courtyard, occasionally raising his hand to use his high-output shoulder cannon to vaporize a Na'vi sub-leader attempting to organize an effective counter-offensive. His icy gaze swept across the theater, appearing to review a performance rehearsed a thousand times over. The two accompanying young bloods tracked tightly behind him, recording every tactical transition and target selection made by the blooded warriors, their minds heavily impacted by the display.
Adhering to the ancient traditions of the Predators, the Elder commanded that the elderly, the weak, the women, and the young who clearly lacked combat capacity be spared.
When the final male Na'vi warrior capable of resistance collapsed into a pool of blood, the Predators halted their assault. The once-vibrant settlement had been reduced to a slaughterhouse. Dozens of Na'vi warrior corpses lay strewn across the ground, the air thick with the scent of scorched flesh and raw blood. The surviving elderly, women, and children huddled amidst the roots of the Hometree or within ruined shelters, letting out suppressed, despondent wails and laments.
The Elder walked up to the Hometree, using his wrist blade to carve a distinct hunting glyph representing the Blood-Blade Clan into the trunk.
"Remember the sights of this day," the Elder told the two shaken young bloods, his cadence remaining flat. "This is the outcome for those who provoke us. A hunt is not merely the acquisition of trophies; it is the sowing of terror and the consolidation of authority."
Without granting the survivors another glance, he turned and led his warriors and young bloods away as silently as they had arrived, leaving behind a field of corpses, burning structures, and a small clan thoroughly broken by terror and grief.