The world cracked open.
Above the scorched plain, Twa Milhoms and the Red Clawed god collided—not like men, but like truths in conflict. The sky folded, the earth moaned, and ash lifted as if afraid to fall in their presence.
Twa Milhoms stood calm.
The Red Clawed god towered—six arms swinging, serpentine eyes glowing with bloodlust, his forked tongue tasting not just air, but fear, fire, and faith. Every step he took made the soil scream. His presence turned breath to stone.
Twa Milhoms raised a single hand.
And the air obeyed.
Far from the battlefield's heart, three shadows approached the Red Clawed settlement from three sides.
Kael climbed with his squad along the eastern ridge, his five-ring mark sharp above his brow. Behind him, Ikanbi warriors with ring marks I through IV moved like water, shielded in silence. Their Shadow Blade guide pointed once—to a weak point in the wall.
Kael whispered. "Now."
The squad surged. Hooks latched. Ladders rose.
By the time the first alarm rang, Kael was already over the wall, his shortblade driving through a Red Clawed guard's chest.
He did not shout.
He did not slow.
Another step, another kill.
His force fanned out across the eastern flank, cutting down the outer guards. A priest attempted to chant near a smoldering idol—but a Shadow Blade's knife found his throat before the name of the god could leave his lips.
Jaron struck from the south, moving through the supply corridor where carts of dried meat, oils, and war-stock were stacked. His team slid beneath the wall's foundation, emerging beneath a camouflage tarp.
A startled sentry opened his mouth to shout. Jaron snapped his neck without a word.
They lit the stockpile with soaked wicks, and flames caught fast. Smoke rose, drawing Red Clawed captains into disarray.
One rushed Jaron with a serrated spear.
The Ikanbi commander moved like the river's edge—firm, curved, fluid.
Steel met skin.
The Red Clawed captain died loudly, and his soldiers watched it happen. They looked at Jaron. Then at the sky—where their god shrieked in divine pain.
Some dropped their weapons.
Enru's squad wove through dense underbrush west of the outer tower. Explosives crafted from clay pots and wildroot sat prepped in his pack. The Shadow Blade handed him a red stone, then vanished into the mist.
Enru smiled.
He rolled a pot beneath the base of the tower, lit a fuse, and stepped behind a tree.
Boom.
The explosion rocked the outer wall, throwing guards from their perches. Confusion erupted.
Enru's team rushed forward, disabling lookout posts with speed and fury.
Inside one tent, he found something he didn't expect.
Children.
Seven of them, barely clothed, painted in ceremonial lines. Fear in their eyes.
An acolyte stood above them with a knife.
Enru didn't speak.
He threw the blade.
It sank deep into the man's spine.
The children didn't scream.
They just stared.
"Get them out," Enru said to two of his warriors. "Now."
The balance had tipped.
Above them all, the gods bled light and sound.
The Red Clawed god roared, mouth wide, six arms forming a storm of motion. He hurled blades of bone, spit ash-flame, dragged reality into smoke.
Twa Milhoms stepped through it.
Each of his movements undid something:
The ash turned to snow.
The flame collapsed into mist.
The noise died in his presence.
Then, he raised both hands.
The world stilled.
In every direction, mirrors formed—reflections of the Red Clawed god.
In one: he was worshipped.
In another: he devoured his own followers.
In a third: he stood alone, forgotten, screaming into empty air.
He saw them all.
And began to unravel.
Inside the camp, the final resistance faltered.
Kael met Jaron in the center square, the flag of Ikanbi hoisted over the Red Clawed watchtower. Enru arrived moments later, stained in ash, two of the rescued children clinging to his side.
The Red Clawed warriors didn't fight anymore.
They either ran, or they knelt.
The six-armed god screamed one last time—a sound of loss—and vanished, scattered like soot across the wind.
Twa Milhoms turned his head, locking eyes with Ben across the battlefield.
"You saw."
"I did."
And then he was gone.
The Red Clawed stronghold fell silent.
No drums.
No chants.
Only breath, and firelight.
And the rising flag of a people who had never asked to be feared—
Only to be left whole.
The ash had barely settled.
Smoke trailed from broken tents. Bone-carved idols cracked in half. The sky, once split by godlight, now held only the soft hush of dusk.
Ben stood at the edge of the battlefield, his cloak heavy with sweat and cinder. Around him, the Ikanbi gathered the wounded, stacked enemy blades, and pulled their fallen from the dead zone.
Twa Milhoms was gone.
But the mark of what had happened lingered in the silence.
Ben turned to Mala, her spear still blood-wet, her hair singed but her stance unbroken. Her five-ring mark was visible through the grime, unwavering.
"You'll handle the field?" Ben asked.
Mala nodded once. "Burn the infected. Bury the rest. Any Red Clawed who still breathes will be chained until we decide if they kneel or vanish."
Ben met her eyes. "Don't leave them to rot. We don't feed ghosts."
Mala smirked. "I'll leave that to the gods."
He gave a final nod and turned away.
His path was already waiting.
Ben crossed the scorched woodline on foot, flanked by two younger warriors—each bearing two rings above their brows. They said nothing as they passed into the broken gates of the Red Clawed tribe's main stronghold, now half-silent, half-chaos.
He was not there to kill.
Not anymore.
He walked the paths between shattered altars and looted tents, his presence alone scattering what remained of resistance.
Prisoners—some wounded, others confused—had been gathered in rows. Civilians too: wide-eyed women, shaken elders, and children old enough to have seen blood.
Ben paused at the center of the camp.
"Who here speaks for what remains?" he asked.
No one answered.
That was answer enough.
Behind him, Kael approached with Jaron and Enru. The three commanders stood silent for a moment, watching Ben as he surveyed what was left.
Kael stepped forward. "Resources are intact—grain stores, smoke-dried meat, weapons, iron, cloth. All salvageable. A few carts already loaded."
Ben nodded. "Prioritize food and metal. Cloth and blades next. Strip the bones if you must, but leave them with dignity."
Enru added, "The Shadow Blades are sweeping the back tunnels. There may be shrines or caches still hidden."
Ben turned to him. "If you find anything sacred, burn it. Don't bring their god back to our gates."
Jaron crossed his arms. "Transport?"
Ben looked west, toward the forest.
"Build sleds. Use oxen. I want everything of value moving by sunrise. What we can't carry, bury."
Later that night, under a canopy of flickering stars, the Ikanbi flag rose above the broken tower of the Red Clawed.
It did not wave in conquest.
It stood for return.
For every mouth that had gone hungry.
For every child who learned to fight too young.
For every name burned into memory, not carved into stone.
Ben looked at the flickering firelight dancing in the camp and said quietly to himself—
"We don't take because we want. We take because we paid for it in full."