The jungle held its breath.
Even the wind, so often playful among the leaves, now crawled low to the ground like prey avoiding a predator. No birds sang. No insects chattered. Only the sound of padded footsteps and controlled breathing marked the presence of Kael's unit—twelve Ikanbi warriors moving in silence.
This was no ordinary hunt. Not in this world.
This world was something else. A place where survival meant learning to devour or be devoured. Where even the herbivores were giants—beasts with hides as thick as temple walls and eyes like moons. Many of them stood the size of a school bus, chewing through forests with jaws that could crush bone.
And then… there were the carnivores.
The warrior's quarry today was one of them—a wild boar of this world, though even calling it that was a pale insult to its true nature.
Kael signaled his warriors to stop. All eyes turned toward the beast ahead.
It stood just beyond a clearing, snorting through flared nostrils. Easily the size of a tank, its back bristled with bone-plated fur like spear shafts jutting from a fortress. Its legs were thick pillars of muscle, its hooves sunk deep into the earth like iron anvils. Its tusks, jagged and curving, glowed faintly with a reddish hue—stained from the blood of things no one had lived to name.
Its eyes were pure black. Empty. Unforgiving.
Some called it Boru'Kah, the Gorestorm Boar. A beast capable of leveling hunting parties, flattening trees, and scattering armed men like leaves in a storm.
In the old world, they said this kind of creature could tear through half a modern army before falling.
And Kael was going to kill it—with leather, sharpened bone, and discipline.
The trap was already set.
Sova, the unit's ghost-stepper, had lured it toward the ravine. Vines were wrapped, tensioned between saplings. Mud was slicked in patches to force missteps. Their formation was tight. No arrows. No distance fighting. This was an ambush in the old way.
Kael's fist went up.
Then the world erupted.
The Gorestorm Boar charged—snorting like a boulder rolling down a mountain. It hit the first patch of mud, skidded, and then roared in rage. That was when Jova and two others leapt from the trees—driving sharpened stakes into the creature's neck and shoulder.
The beast screamed—a sound that sent hawks fleeing miles away.
It reared, crushed one warrior beneath its mass, and spun wildly as another spear caught its underbelly. The warriors closed in like sharks. They didn't move with speed—they moved with unity. Like a single mind working through twelve bodies.
Kael landed the final strike, leaping from a branch, driving his bronze-tipped spear through the base of its skull and down into the spine.
The beast collapsed like a collapsing tower—shuddering once, then silent.
The jungle remained still.
One warrior sobbed, not from grief, but from release.
Kael crouched and whispered to the beast's massive corpse, not in prayer, but in acknowledgment. It had earned its death. They had earned their place.
They carved not just meat, but tusk, sinew, and blood—the tools of survival.
By midday, they returned to Ikanbi dragging what was left of Boru'Kah. Its tusks were lashed to a stretcher like war trophies. The blood trail behind them steamed in the humid light.
Jova's limp did not slow him. He refused aid. He would not shame the unity of their hunt with weakness.
The people of Ikanbi watched in silence.
No drums. No celebrations.
Just quiet recognition.
From a distance, a Red-Clawed scout watched, high in the trees. His eyes shook. His hands trembled.
He wrote just three words on a strip of bark before slipping into the forest:
"They've become monsters."
They sat high in the canopy like ghosts—eight shadows pressed against the bark and breeze, cloaked in grime, sweat, and silence.
The old scout, known among them as Khor, hadn't spoken in hours. He only watched. Eyes sharpened not from youth, but from the weight of things he'd seen. Below them, Ikanbi stirred with its quiet, relentless rhythm.
The seven new scouts fidgeted beside him—young, eager, and tense. Their orders were clear: confirm the elder's delusions. Bring clarity back to the chieftains. Destroy the myth of Ikanbi.
But what they saw was not myth. It was motion.
—
The youngest scout blinked in disbelief.
"They train again… but there are no commands. No drum. No lash."
Another leaned in.
"Do they have no discipline? Look at them, running like dogs in circles."
Khor did not answer. He had watched those same "dogs" tear apart a beast that could shatter bone with a sneeze.
"They disappear some days," one whispered. "They vanish. Then return like ghosts. Look at their eyes. Empty one day. Burning the next."
Another snorted. "You call that strength?"
Khor's hand snapped out—gripping the younger's jaw with knotted fingers.
"Do not speak of strength until you've seen it break," he hissed.
They grew quiet.
—
Below, four militia groups moved in eerie coordination. No banners. No chants. No overseers.
They ran. Dropped. Climbed. Ate in silence. Fought the air and shadows. Not one wasted breath. Not one moment unsynchronized.
"What do they train for?" a scout asked.
Khor finally spoke again, voice cracked and low.
"For something worse than death. That's what their eyes say."
The scouts turned toward him.
Khor pointed toward the one group returning from the jungle, dragging half the forest behind them—a carcass the size of a stone house, its bones exposed and its tusks lashed to spears like trophies. Warriors walked beside it without cheers, without howls. Only steady feet and blood-caked resolve.
"They do not hunger for glory," Khor whispered. "They hunt like those who've seen war… and expect worse."
—
One scout couldn't hold his tongue.
"They eat apart. They don't even share meals. That's not a tribe. That's a village of animals."
Khor's eyes narrowed.
"They're more than a tribe now. Look again. No one steals. No one shouts. Even the smallest child bows to the old before taking water."
A pause.
"And their women…" he added. "They don't get taken. They're asked."
That silenced them. They had seen it, too. A warrior returning from training sat beside a woman in the shade. He did not touch her. He peeled fruit for her. Smiled. Obeyed. Another scout had watched a man leave at dawn to hunt, but only after asking a woman's nod of approval.
Primitive tribes don't do that.
Not where they came from.
One of the youngest muttered, "They're broken."
Khor shook his head.
"No. They've been reforged."
He turned his eyes toward the sky—clouds gathering in the east.
"And I don't think they're the same people we were sent to kill."
—
The jungle whispered its secrets to those who listened.
Seven young scouts sat, unsure whether they'd just seen discipline or madness, evolution or heresy.
Only Khor knew the truth.
"They're not preparing for war," he said. "They're becoming it."
And in the stillness that followed, no one spoke again.
Not for a long, long time.
The forest floor rumbled with every dragged hoof of the slain beast. Blood soaked the trail behind Kael's militia group as they emerged from the undergrowth—barely winded, muscles caked in mud, sweat, and victory.
From their high perch in the trees, the eight scouts watched in stunned silence. Even the arrogant ones—those who mocked the Ikanbians' strange habits—fell quiet.
The boar beast, twice the size of a Red-Claw battle chariot, had tusks like scimitars and skin thick as bark. It would take five of their own to even bring it down—and that's assuming none died in the first charge.
Yet here it was, limp, lifeless, dragged by warriors who hadn't lost a single member.
Kael walked at the front—his eyes calm, focused. His body bore a few deep cuts, but no limp, no weakness. Behind him, his squad held steady, moving in unison, as though their steps were part of the same heartbeat.
It was terrifying.
And then he came.
Twa Milhoms.
He didn't emerge. He appeared—as if the earth had taken a breath and exhaled him. Bare feet. No weapon. No armor. No warpaint. Just stillness wrapped in skin.
But the air shifted. Even from their hidden vantage, the scouts could feel it—pressure. Like the jungle itself had bowed its head.
The younger scouts trembled. One whispered, "What… what is he?"
Khor didn't answer right away. His knuckles whitened around the tree bark as his eyes followed Twa Milhoms' every step. He spoke without looking away.
"I believe he's a god."
The laughter from the others was nervous, scattered.
"A god?" one scoffed. "That's just a man. Look—no followers, no throne, no weapons. Our shamans command more awe."
Khor's gaze narrowed. "You've never seen a god before. Neither have I. But I know what it feels like… to be prey in the presence of something greater."
He pointed down as Kael and his warriors knelt—not out of weakness, but respect—and offered the beast at Twa Milhoms' feet.
The supposed god simply nodded once. That was enough.
—
Later that night, the scouts gathered around a low, hidden fire, far from the light of Ikanbi.
The air was heavy.
Khor finally spoke with authority, not suggestion.
"When we return… we must tell the chieftain one thing."
The others glanced at him.
He leaned forward, voice low and final.
"Do not challenge Ikanbi. Not now. Not ever. We must go east, or south, or wherever the gods are blind—but away from here."
One of the younger scouts asked, "And if he doesn't listen?"
Khor looked toward the glow of distant cooking fires and the shadows of children playing beside beast cubs and militia warriors walking in pairs with strange, quiet strength.
"If he doesn't listen," Khor said, "then we'll all learn what happens when a tribe stops being a tribe… and becomes something else."