The afternoon was well advanced, the declining sun casting long shadows on the training ground. The apprentices gathered again, less disorderly than in the morning, but just as nervous. Instructor TOGBE awaited them, leaning against a tree trunk. At his feet lay an impressive arsenal of traditional weapons: spears with smooth, worn shafts, elegantly curved bows, shorter javelins, dark metal throwing knives, and long, tapered sticks—the atlatl spear-throwers.
"So? Did your first lesson on animals whet your appetite?" he called out, a slight, enigmatic smile on his lips.
A few murmurs of agreement answered him, tinged with still palpable frustration.
"Good. Now, onto the tools that will make you hunters, not mere observers or pathetic scavengers." His gaze intensified. "Think: facing an animal, what are our advantages, we humans? What gives us even a chance?"
A perplexed silence greeted the question. ZE-RAK wasn't even looking at TOGBE. His eyes were glued to one spear in particular, longer than the others, its dark brown wood worn by countless hands, its flint tip chiseled with a precision that spoke of seriousness and death.
"... Weapons?" an apprentice finally ventured, his voice unsure.
"Not just!" TOGBE corrected, straightening up. He tapped his temple, repeating MOUGBE's gesture, but for a different lesson. "Our true strength is here. Animals have fangs, claws, monstrous strength, sharpened senses... We humans have none of that. A lion is born with its claws. We, we must invent our own. Design them, forge them, and learn to use them. It is our intelligence that makes us formidable. The best weapon is not the sharpest or the heaviest; it is the one your mind knows how to wield, the one that becomes the extension of your will."
ZE-RAK clenched his fists. His father was physically strong. He didn't need weapons to impress; his body alone, his presence, was enough. But he, ZE-RAK, only had his mind and his special ability. Would it be enough? The spear seemed to be a bridge between the two worlds: it required strength to be carried and thrown, but intelligence to be aimed, to calculate its trajectory, to anticipate the prey's movement. It was a strategist's weapon.
"My role today is to help you choose the tool that will become the extension of that intelligence," TOGBE announced, pointing to the display. "Knives, bows, javelins, spears... and the atlatl spear-throwers that multiply the power and range of your throws. It's up to you. Don't rush. Listen to your instinct. The weapon must choose you as much as you choose it."
A shiver of excitement ran through the group. TOGBE gave a quick, fluid, and deadly efficient demonstration of each weapon. He explained the strengths and weaknesses of each with a clarity that captivated the audience. Then came the moment of choice.
ZE-RAK didn't hesitate. He stepped forward, ignoring the looks, and went straight to the spear that had hypnotized him. He grabbed it. It was heavy, much heavier than he had imagined, but its balance was perfect. It was almost alive in his hand, a promise of power and precision.
TOGBE approached, watching him adjust his grip.
"A spear? Without an atlatl? That's a... bold choice for a beginner. The atlatl would give you more power with less effort, and more accuracy over distance. Otherwise, a javelin would be lighter, easier to master at first."
"I prefer the spear," ZE-RAK replied, his voice firmer than he would have thought. He felt this weapon was his, like an obvious fact, an inheritance he couldn't refuse.
A slight smile, almost approving, played on TOGBE's lips.
Stubborn. Like his father.
"Very well. Then let your determination be your atlatl."
He turned to the others. "Don't forget: a weapon is just a tool. It's the intention and training behind it that matter. It's up to you to develop your way of using it. Not mine."
The snickers started as ZE-RAK practiced alone, slightly apart. His first throws were clumsy, the spear vibrating and capricious. He ignored the mocking looks, the comments about "the traitor's son playing with his father's stick." He concentrated on the feel of the wood in his palm, the weight of the tip, the fluid movement of his shoulder muscles. With each gesture, a fleeting image crossed his mind: the perfect trajectory, the target hit right in the heart. Like an echo of his former simulations. It was almost pleasant, a bubble of concentration in the chaos.
As he prepared to throw again, aiming at a distant stump, the familiar buzz of the camp—the laughter, the advice, the wind—stopped dead in his mind. Something.
It wasn't a sound. It was a sensation. A sudden prickle at the back of his skull, an icy shiver running down his spine. A flash image, brief and blurry: a dark spot slicing through the air toward his back.
A fraction of a second before the characteristic whistle reached his ears, his body knew.
He threw himself sideways without thinking, an instinctive and abrupt movement, abandoning all throwing posture. An arrow thudded into the ground with a dull sound, right where his heel had been a second earlier, the quiver vibrating with malicious intent.
His heart pounding, not from fear but from surprise at his own reflex, he jumped back up. His harasser from the canteen, the tall lout, was lowering his bow with a fake expression of annoyance, but his eyes were laughing.
"Oh! Sorry, mate. The arrow slipped. The wind, probably."
Anger rose in ZE-RAK, burning and sudden, a primal fire demanding vengeance. But he contained it, forged it into a calculated coldness. He stared down the boy, his gaze becoming glacial, similar to the flint tip of his spear.
"Everyone can make mistakes," he said, his voice strangely calm, almost a whisper that nevertheless carried to the other apprentices who had fallen silent. "I hope you'll be just as understanding when it's my turn. And that your own dodge will be as quick as my apologies will be sincere."
The other's mocking smile faded, replaced by a glint of surprise and wariness. The response wasn't the expected one. There was neither fear nor loud provocation, but a veiled threat, polite and all the more terrifying. He grimaced, a forced laugh on his lips.
"Haha... of course. Sorry again."
As his harasser walked away, visibly unsettled, ZE-RAK turned his attention back to his spear. But his mind was elsewhere, on alert. How had he known? It wasn't a sound that had alerted him. It wasn't luck. It was a visceral certainty, a flash of déjà vu that had precipitated his body into action before his conscious mind had even had time to process the information. It was the same sensation as during his simulations, but applied to the real world, in real time.
This reflex... It wasn't the first time a premonition had crossed him, but this was the most blatant, the most undeniable, the most useful.
Doubt, tenacious, had just blossomed into a new and dizzying certainty. And this time, it was impossible to ignore. His power wasn't just a child's game. It was a weapon. Perhaps the most dangerous of all.