Arthul sat atop a sun-warmed stone at the heart of the village, the ache in his ribs a constant reminder of the beast he had driven away. His wounds were swathed in rough, bloodstained cloth, but his back remained straight, posture firm.
The tribe could not see him falter.
Crocodile demons bustled around him, their scaled bodies glinting in the afternoon sun. The village was alive with cautious energy—still shaken from the recent attack.
He breathed deep. The pain burned, but he forced it down.
"Leader, you called for me?"
Arthul looked up. Zarok, the elder, stood before him—stooped, weathered, but wise. His scales had dulled with age, though his eyes were sharp as ever.
"Zarok," Arthul said, steadying his voice. "Report the state of the tribe."
Zarok's gaze lingered on Arthul's bandages, then flicked away. "No deaths. Some injuries from the battle, but morale holds."
Arthul's jaw tensed. Good. He hadn't bled in vain.
"The warriors fought with courage. They will be rewarded."
Zarok inclined his head, but his shoulders stiffened as Arthul continued.
"Go to the treasury. Bring the remaining healing herbs. The healer will prepare medicine for the injured—today."
Zarok hesitated. "Leader... the stores are nearly gone."
The words were careful, but the concern behind them was sharp. Arthul knew it well—survival clashing with compassion. Still, hesitation bred fear. Fear bred ruin.
His golden eyes narrowed. "Do it, Zarok. We don't hoard hope in this tribe."
The elder's eyes widened. Then he bowed, deep and swift. "As you command."
As Zarok disappeared into the shadows of the stone dwellings, Arthul allowed a brief grimace. The pain hadn't lessened. If anything, it was growing worse. That beast's claws had torn deeper than he'd admitted. Every breath was a struggle.
But he couldn't afford to falter. Not now.
As the sun dipped low, Zarok returned with the healer, an old demon whose scales were pale as bone. Together, they stirred a thick, bitter-smelling soup in a stone cauldron, smoke curling into the air.
One by one, wounded warriors drank. Their groans softened. Laughter bubbled up. The mood lifted like fog under sunlight.
And then it came.
Ding! The host has provided first-grade medicinal soup to loyal subordinates. Triggering a hundredfold return—obtained second-grade medicinal soup.
A soft chime echoed in his mind. Before him, a flicker of light coalesced into a jade bottle etched with runes, glowing with faint, internal fire.
Arthul's breath caught. He knew what it was—second-grade medicinal soup, fit for warriors leagues beyond their current level. It could mend flesh and marrow. It could awaken strength.
He uncorked it without hesitation and drank.
The cold liquid raced through him like a frozen river, then burst into flame. His muscles tightened. Bones knit. The pain vanished. Every fiber of his body hummed with vitality. But something else stirred—deeper.
A warmth bloomed in his core, reaching into places even he hadn't known were broken. Then came flashes—memories not his own. Battles fought. Power wielded. Ancient knowledge clawed its way into his mind.
He gasped, eyes snapping open, golden irises gleaming. His injuries were gone—but more than that, something inside him had been reborn.
The old Chief's dormant potential—unlocked.
He flexed a clawed fist. Power. Raw and clean.
Yet he masked the transformation, keeping his posture slumped, his breaths shallow. The tribe couldn't know—not yet. Power drew attention. In the demon world, attention was death.
Across the courtyard, Zarok met his gaze. Relief flickered in the elder's expression, tinged with awe. The warriors toasted, their spirits high. None questioned the change.
Good.
They must believe this recovery was earned. Not gifted.
Arthul stood slowly, casting his gaze over the recovering warriors, the steaming pot, the flickering firelight.
The path forward was clear.
The tribe would rise. And no force—demon, beast, or god—would stop them.