The night still clung to the earth like a blanket of ash when the call came.
No horns. No shouting. Just the rhythmic beating of feet on dirt.
Ben stood at the edge of the central clearing, arms crossed, eyes scanning the dim horizon. The breath of dawn had not yet stirred, and yet already, the chosen warriors had gathered in silence. Kael's group on the left. Jaron's on the right. Mala's further back, like shadows pressed against the trees.
They were tired. Muscles aching from days of work, minds unsettled by change. Still unmarked, still unsure, still becoming. But they stood.
Ben nodded once. Then he took a step forward and began to run.
No signal. No speech. Only the thudding of his feet across soil. One by one, the militia followed, first clumsily, then more surely. Kael barked at two to pick up the pace. Jaron encouraged with quiet firmness. Mala ran like a ghost—wordless, watching everything.
Around the perimeter they moved. The border of Ikanbi, the boundary of survival. Roots grabbed at ankles. Vines slapped arms. Some stumbled. Some swore. But none stopped.
By the time they returned to the clearing, sweat had soaked through fabric, and lungs begged for mercy. Ben didn't stop. He dropped to the ground, palms down, and began pushing.
"One," he called.
The militia dropped.
"Two. Three."
Push-ups turned to jumping jacks. Muscles burned. Groans echoed. But the rhythm formed again—disjointed, raw, but real. Dust clung to skin, sweat carved paths down backs, and still they moved.
Then came the final act.
The Movement.
Low stances. Arms sweeping. Legs grounded like trunks in soil. This was not exercise. This was something more. Ancient. Designed by something that bled eternity.
As the sun cracked the edge of the world, the militia flowed as one.
No shouting. No applause. Just breath.
And then stillness.
Ben stood slowly. His shirt clung to him, soaked and heavy. He looked over the warriors. Kael's jaw was tight. Jaron stood tall despite the pain. Mala nodded once to her group before fading back into the trees.
"Again tomorrow," Ben said, voice low. "And the next."
He turned and walked toward the slope above the camp, toward the bamboo grove.
Behind him, the warriors remained standing—exhausted, but changed.
Across the camp, others had gathered to watch. Women carrying water paused mid-step. Older folk leaned on walking sticks, whispering. Children, few as they were, mimicked the movements with wide-eyed curiosity.
Druel stood beside Boji near the edge of the fishing plots.
"I didn't think they'd last the first lap," Boji muttered, arms crossed.
"Pain teaches," Druel replied. "So does repetition."
Boji snorted. "I'll repeat fishing lines, thank you. You want to run in circles, that's your business."
Jano chuckled beside him. "I might try it. See if it helps with hauling nets."
"Or carrying Boji's tools," Boji snapped, jabbing Jano's ribs with an elbow.
That night, the sky burned with red-orange streaks before settling into deep indigo. The fires were lit with food, not magic. The fire pits remained cold, untouched since the day Twa Milhom silenced them.
Ben knelt before his own. The stones still pulsed faintly beneath his fingers.
Not fire. Not heat.
Presence.
He closed his eyes and reached—not with hands, but with will. A question stirred in his chest, unspoken.
Will this be enough?
The air shifted.
Not a voice. Not a word.
But a weight.
Something ancient and vast brushed the edge of his thoughts—like the tail of a great beast passing overhead in silence.
Then, from deep within the bamboo grove, a faint whisper carried on the wind:
"Good."
Ben opened his eyes and stood.
They had begun.
Beyond the safety of Ikanbi's grove, the world writhed.
Forests burned under the weight of desperate migration. Bone-thin warriors clashed under moons that no longer blessed their prayers. Smoke curled from what once were villages—now only names whispered by fleeing children and the wind. In places where gods once walked, silence reigned. In other places, new gods rose—made of blood, madness, and broken oaths.
In the eastern wilds, a tribe known as the Saan was wiped from memory in a single night. Their god—Gorra, the Sun-Eater—was slain by one of his own priest-blooded, a boy not old enough to shave. His body, massive and divine, was now a rotting monument along the River of Ash, feeding carrion birds with sacred flesh.
To the west, two tribes clashed in a war over salt. Not lands, not food, but salt—precious, rare, vital. The winners celebrated with blood-feasts. The losers were skinned and fed to beasts the size of homes.
And always, the beasts.
Great creatures that stalked the cracked valleys and shadowed mountains. One such beast, the black-backed Gorelion, roared into a mountain pass and scattered five hundred nomads like leaves in a storm. Their bones still sang in the night wind.
No one was safe.
No place was untouched.
The strong preyed. The weak prayed.
But prayers were rarely answered.
Gods fell like stars—burning, screaming, forgotten. Some struck bargains too cruel to last. Others turned on their people when worship wavered. In one region, entire tribes sacrificed their own children nightly, hoping to summon protection. None came.
Only one place grew without blood running in its gutters.
Ikanbi.
No one outside knew what was growing inside —not yet. But soon rumors would began. Of a village with breath in its soil and warmth without fire. Of a people marked not by scars, but by choice. Of a man who spoke with a god not from below, but beside him.
And while the world cracked, while chaos reigned, while gods fell and new ones clawed from the dust—
Ikanbi endured.
Quietly.
unnoticed.
Back in Ikanbi, the morning air trembled with heat and resolve. Dust kicked from bare feet as the militia circled the tribe's perimeter in their fourth rotation, breathing heavy, arms pumping, legs burning. Sweat clung to their skin like armor, and their breath came ragged but steady.
At the front of the formation, Ben stumbled.
He gritted his teeth, pushing harder, but his steps were uneven, his form loose. The movements Twa Milhoms had given him—precise, powerful, balanced—were not forgiving. He landed hard, caught himself, but it didn't go unnoticed.
From the edge of the grove, where mist still lingered, came laughter like a rumble of dry thunder.
Twa Milhoms stood with arms crossed, amusement dancing in the molten glow of his eyes.
"You move like a wet reed," he called. "Do it again."
Ben cursed under his breath, but he didn't stop. Around him, the militia looked on—some hiding smirks, others staring in awe. Their leader was not perfect. But he kept running.
Twa Milhoms strolled forward, walking beside the circling warriors without ever lifting his pace. He didn't break stride with the world. He simply moved through it.
"When they run, they must run with unity," he said. "But they cannot do it empty."
He turned to Ben without breaking stride. "Send Sema to me."
Ben, panting, nodded once. "She'll come."
That afternoon, Sema stood before the god, wary but unafraid. Her hands still bore the scent of crushed herbs and fire-charred roots.
Twa Milhoms studied her silently before speaking.
"Three meals," he said. "Every day. No matter the weather. No matter the hunt."
Sema blinked. "Meals of what?"
He lifted a single finger. "Balanced. Enough root to anchor. Enough meat to fuel. Enough greens to breathe. A body is not a flame to burn. It is an engine to endure."
She nodded slowly, her mind racing.
"Teach the others to prepare the same," he added. "Not just for the warriors. For all. But the warriors must eat first—together."
"Together?" she echoed.
Twa Milhoms gave her a sharp look. "Together. If they bleed together, they eat together. Or they are not one."
And with that, he turned and disappeared into the wall of bamboo.
The following morning, the routine continued—more rigid, more defined. Warriors lined up before sunrise. The movement was no longer unfamiliar. Their bodies remembered.
Ben stood at the head again. His breath already came hard, but his back was straight, his legs solid.
Then, without sound, Twa Milhoms materialized beside him.
Ben didn't startle. Not anymore.
"You lead," the god said, nodding toward the track. "Always. They must see your back, not your shadow."
Then he pointed behind them. "Your commanders—Kael, Jaron, Mala—they come next. Always. No warrior may run ahead of them. No one may fall behind without cause. Order is breath. Break the breath, and the body dies."
Ben nodded, setting his jaw.
Together, they ran—Ben at the front, Twa Milhoms beside him, silent and godlike. The commanders followed, then the warriors, their feet pounding the earth in rhythm.
The tribe watched from shaded groves and rooftops. Children imitated the steps in silence. Even the animals seemed to pause.
For the first time, Ikanbi didn't just look like a village.
It moved like a force.