The morning rose without sound.
No birds sang. No fire cracked. Only the slow throb of the earth, trembling beneath feet it did not recognize.
Mala stood at the northern line—her battlefield.
Around her, the Ikanbi formation moved like breath: shields raised, spears readied, eyes forward. Her own ring mark—a rope circle inked above her left eyebrow with "V" in bold black—shone faintly beneath the morning mist.
Then the line of Red Clawed warriors split like water, and through it marched their chief.
He was massive—taller than any man Mala had seen, covered in bone-plated armor. His own mark—"V" scarred deep into his brow—seemed to pulse with hatred. He swung a jagged blade in wide, arrogant arcs as he approached. Ikanbi fighters tightened formation.
But Mala didn't flinch.
Instead, she smiled.
"He's yours," she whispered.
And then, like a storm with no warning—Ben appeared.
One blink, and he was there.
Six-ring mark glowing with quiet fire above his left brow—"VI" inside a circle of dark rope. Cloak trailing ash, eyes unreadable.
"I'll handle this," he said simply, stepping past her.
Mala stepped back, raising her hand to signal her subordinates.
"Clear a path. We hold the line."
And the line held.
The duel was thunder.
Ben and the Red Clawed chief slammed into one another, the air cracking with each clash. Bone blade met bare fists wrapped in divine force. Every strike shook the dirt.
Ben moved like memory—fast, disciplined, merciless.
The Red Clawed chief fought like instinct—powerful, wild, and blind with pride.
They were opposites. They were equals.
Until Ben wasn't.
His sixth ring flared, and with a final crushing blow to the chest, the chief dropped to his knees.
"Six?" the chief rasped. "You're just a boy."
Ben stood tall. Blood ran down his cheek, but his voice was steady.
"No. I'm Ikanbi."
The chief fell.
And the sky answered.
A pressure unlike any before rolled across the battlefield.
The air burned cold. The light turned gray.
The god of the Red Clawed Tribe descended.
He was vast, faceless, his body cloaked in sheets of bone and cinder. Ash spiraled around his feet, and wherever he stepped, the ground died.
Silence spread through the field like a disease.
Then—Twa Milhoms came.
He did not fall from the sky. He walked.
Through the tree line. Through the smoke. Through the doubt.
Barefoot, cloak of mist, eyes made of stillness.
The gods met in the dead center of the plain.
They did not speak.
They did not bow.
They only stood.
And around them—war ignited.
Mala roared.
Her blade split the air, cutting down the first Red Clawed who dared approach. Her subordinates moved as one, backs to each other, every movement trained and timed.
"We hold!" she cried.
And they did.
The Red Clawed ranks were wild without their chief—driven by fury, but fractured in rhythm. Mala used it. Trapped them in pockets. Crushed their charges. Reversed their momentum.
Blood coated the rocks, but not one Ikanbi fell from fear.
Beyond the chaos, three paths opened under the canopy of trees.
Kael, Jaron, and Enru moved like shadows in different directions—each leading a vanguard force toward the Red Clawed main camp.
At their front, a lone figure guided them—one of Khol's Shadow Blades.
The guide carried no weapon, only a carved stick wrapped in twine and stone, used to signal route changes without speech. They wore a bonecloth mask, their steps soundless.
Kael took the east ridge.
Jaron slid through the southern brush.
Enru darted across the river stones westward.
The enemy didn't even know they had left.
Far above them, on the battlefield, Twa Milhoms raised a single hand.
The Red Clawed god halted.
Ash paused.
The air shivered.
Twa Milhoms did not need to strike.
He only needed to be.
The god of the Red Clawed snarled—but stepped no closer.
Ben stood behind Twa Milhoms, gaze steady, chest heaving, hand clenched from battle.
The war had begun.
And Ikanbi had not broken.
The field held.
The tribe stood.
And the god walked beside them.
The world narrowed to blood and footwork.
The Red Clawed chief lunged—feral, enormous, his V-ring mark flaring red above his brow like it had been carved with flame. He swung the jagged bone blade in wide, looping arcs that tore the air as they passed. His strikes had no elegance, but they didn't need it. They carried weight. Brutality. Hunger.
Ben ducked one, but barely. The next clipped his shoulder, tearing cloth and slicing into muscle. He grunted, staggering back, planting his feet.
This man fights like a beast, Ben thought.
He was used to rhythm. Timing. Precision.
This was none of that.
The chief didn't fight to test his strength—he fought to destroy. Each movement was violent and reckless, made not to win the fight but to maim, to overwhelm.
Ben exhaled. Blood ran down his arm.
He remembered the training.
Not with spears. Not with men.
Twa Milhoms had thrown him into impossible places.
There were weeks where he awoke in open fields of screaming mist, hunted by beasts that wore flesh like clothing.
Other times, he fought men with silver bones and eyes that didn't blink.
Once, he'd been dropped into a pit of stone where the air itself twisted into blades.
"Everything you face," Twa Milhoms had said, "will try to tear you into something small."
Ben let that memory settle in his chest.
The chief came again, screaming this time, charging with the fury of a storm.
Ben moved.
No roar. No fury.
He shifted inside the arc of a downward slash, wrapped his arms under the chief's elbow, and drove his forehead into the man's nose. The crunch was thick and wet.
The chief stumbled, eyes watering, but he didn't stop.
He grabbed Ben's throat with one hand and slammed him into the dirt.
Dust exploded.
Ben gasped, coughing.
The chief raised his blade high.
Ben's hand lashed up.
Crack.
The bone blade flew from the chief's grasp, snapped at the hilt by a burst of divine force from Ben's palm. Both men scrambled to their feet, bruised and raw.
"I should be stronger," the chief spat, "I've fought in ten wars. Taken fifty heads."
Ben's eyes were calm. His sixth ring glowed—quiet but absolute.
"I've only fought monsters."
He advanced.
The chief swung a fist.
Ben slipped past it.
Three strikes.
Rib. Neck. Jaw.
The chief fell, choking, unable to rise.
Ben stood over him, not angry. Not even triumphant.
Only breathing.