The morning came as it always did, but something in the light was wrong. The sun rose, yet the warmth it brought did not touch the skin. The animals of the forest—usually restless at dawn—remained silent. No birds sang. No leaves rustled. It was as if the entire world held its breath.
The militia assembled on the training grounds, eyes hollow, shoulders low. Their bodies had recovered from the last trial—but their minds had not. They still carried the memory of dying behind unfamiliar walls, cut down by foreign steel. They had returned to Ikanbi breathing, but changed.
Ben stood at the front, his brow furrowed. He felt it too.
Then, without flash or sound, Twa Milhoms appeared at the center of the field. One blink he was not there—then he was. His presence swallowed the air. His eyes scanned the warriors like a man inspecting tools he had once used and almost forgotten.
No words were spoken.
No greetings exchanged.
He raised one hand and, in a voice that was almost gentle, said, "Today… there will be no battlefield. No beasts. No commands."
Then he exhaled.
No one saw anything. No energy surged. No glow or pulse or shiver in the ground.
But something cracked in the invisible realm.
Ben dropped to one knee instantly, his lungs refusing to fill. His fingers dug into the dirt to keep from falling face-first.
Kael turned pale, vomiting where he stood, clutching his chest like it would burst.
Jaron froze, his eyes locked wide, not blinking. His whole body trembled as if caught in a storm only he could feel.
Mala tried to draw her spear—but her hands no longer belonged to her.
Even Enru, who had led men into real war, began to cry softly, unaware that tears were falling until they soaked his tunic.
The warriors from the Shadow Ring broke first.
Some fell into fetal positions.
Some wept openly.
Others muttered names of gods, of mothers, of things they didn't know they remembered. One soldier bit into his own arm, believing he had been struck by something unseen. The air itself had become a blade, and it cut without leaving marks.
For sixty seconds, they endured a pressure that had no form—only weight. The dread was not loud. It was not sharp. It was a slow, suffocating dread… like standing in the shadow of something ancient and patient, something that had watched entire worlds die.
Then, just as suddenly, it ended.
Twa Milhoms withdrew it.
Several warriors collapsed. A few screamed—not during the pressure, but after it. Their bodies reacted once it was safe. A delay in terror, like waking from a dream that had already begun to devour them.
Twa Milhoms stood among the broken militia, his gaze unreadable.
"This," he said softly, "was nothing."
His voice drifted like smoke.
"A fragment of a whisper of fear you will one day face. If you cannot stand in the face of it—your tribe will not survive."
He began to turn away but paused.
"The strongest men are not the ones who strike the hardest—but the ones who can stand while others fall."
And with that, he vanished again.
No light. No sound. Just gone.
Sema arrived shortly after. She tried to bring food, but most warriors couldn't hold a bowl. Their hands trembled too badly. Some stared at her blankly, not understanding what she was asking. Others simply looked away, ashamed.
That night, the warriors did not speak.
No stories. No laughter. No fire.
They lay in the dirt, eyes open, chests rising shallowly.
Ben alone wandered into the bamboo, feet dragging, his shirt soaked in cold sweat. He walked until he reached the edge of where the trees became too dense for anyone to follow.
There, in the quiet, with only the stars above, he whispered, "If that was a whisper… what happens when he speaks?"
No answer came.
But the silence had weight.
And he carried it back with him.
The morning sky was still inked in shades of purple when the warriors gathered.
No one needed to call them. Their bodies had learned the rhythm—though their spirits hesitated.
Many had barely slept. Those who did woke drenched in sweat, memories of deathless dread crawling through their minds. Yet, when the bamboo stirred and the wind shifted, they came.
Ben stood silently at the front.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, deeper now, held something new—something forged.
Twa Milhoms appeared not from the forest, but within it—one moment root, the next, form. His presence no longer surprised them, but the silence that followed always did.
He looked across them.
No nod. No smile. No warning.
Only a voice—measured, steady.
"You returned after my whisper," he said. "Now… you will drink from its source."
With that, he raised his hand again.
But this time, the intent didn't strike like a hammer. It poured—slow, relentless, and suffocating like heat without sun. A mist of violence. A pressure that kissed the skin and crawled under it.
Some stumbled, knees buckling.
But none collapsed.
They had felt this once. They remembered what it meant.
"This is my breath," Twa Milhoms said. "It is not meant to break you—but to sharpen you."
The pressure deepened.
Not a crushing wave, but an ocean pressing inward, seeping through the lungs, the skin, the soul.
Ben's heart pounded, but he stood.
Kael gritted his teeth, sweat pouring like rain from his brow.
Jaron whispered the names of each warrior he trained beside—like an anchor.
Mala closed her eyes and matched the rhythm of her breath to the pulse in the earth.
Enru remained still, his hands clenched until his knuckles bled.
And slowly—ever so slowly—the warriors adjusted.
They did not resist the killing intent this time.
They invited it.
Let it soak through them. Let it fill the places where fear once lived. Let it remind them what it meant to face death—and stay standing.
"You will not become like me," said Twa Milhoms. "But a trace of my fire can become yours… if you drink deeply enough."
One by one, the warriors straightened their backs.
They were shaking—but not falling.
Their eyes burned—not with pain, but with awakening.
From the shadows, even the younger militia members—those from the shadow ring—held their ground. No longer folding. No longer hiding behind veterans.
And the killing intent began to change.
It no longer felt like a storm meant to crush them.
It felt like armor.
It wrapped around them.
Inside them.
Through them.
When Twa Milhoms finally lowered his hand, the field did not erupt into gasps or collapse.
Instead, the warriors stood there—quiet, wide-eyed, trembling, alive.
He looked them over one last time and said:
"Today, you did not survive it. You became part of it. Let it burn through you until your enemies feel it before they see you."
Then he vanished, like wind leaving a hollow chamber.
No one spoke.
Even Sema, waiting by the food tent, did not call them.
They simply walked—shoulders heavier, eyes deeper—toward the river. Some to wash. Some to breathe.
All to prepare.
Because something in them had shifted.
And the world would feel it soon.