Upon hearing Samir's words, a moment of hesitation flashed across the faces of the Flame Tribe members.
A quivering old elf reluctantly touched the bag in his hand, lifting a corner to reveal a stack of thick, ancient books with beautifully etched patterns.
His voice was laced with bitterness:
"This... these are the paper tomes we risked our lives to bring out of the Elf Forest, the thousand-year heritage of the Elf Clan. If we abandon them, then the Elf Clan..."
Samir glanced at him with a complex expression, sighing:
"The Mother Goddess has already returned, civilization can continue, but if all elves die, then nothing will be left."
Philosier, with tears clouding the corners of her eyes, caressed the thick family tome of the Flame Tribe she carried.
"Alas..."
She sighed, and under the disbelieving gazes of the other old elves, she resolutely threw the heavy tome, a record of thousands of years of the tribe's history and glory, onto the ground...
"Clan... Clan Leader!"
