The sun rose over Ikanbi, not in glory, but in weight.
One month had passed. The ground had dried in places, cracked in others, and the trees had begun to wear their spring again.
The Trial Hunt had begun.
They had gone—warriors, hunters, civilians seeking change, and those who had hired others—each bound by the same rule:
"Hunt a beast. Return alone. Present your kill at the chamber."
And now… they began to return.
The first came limping down the valley ridge, dragging a tusked beast that bled from the neck. A one-ring militia warrior. His arms were torn open, his leg bound in vines.
He said nothing.
He only nodded to Sema as he dropped the carcass at the chamber's stone gate and collapsed beside it.
She marked his name.
He was now two rings.
Another arrived—a hired hunter—carrying a severed head wrapped in leather cords. It belonged to a black-eyed reptile with dozens of jagged teeth.
The hunter gave the beast to a woman with trembling hands. She was unmarked. She had raised no blade. But she had bartered for this moment.
Sema took her hand and marked her first ring in the rope-bound ink above her brow.
But not all came back with glory.
A boy no older than sixteen returned with nothing but claw marks on his arms and fear in his eyes. He had tried—and failed.
Ben met him near the ridge.
The boy dropped to his knees.
"I—"
"You lived," Ben said. "Next time, you return with more."
The boy nodded. "Next time."
Some came not alone.
A woman, ribs broken, leaned on the carcass of her kill as she stumbled forward, refusing help. A man returned half-frozen, the beast he killed strapped to a sled fashioned from roots and bark.
Some returned without beasts—but with wounds and stories. Not all were failures. Some had fought but been robbed of their prize by other creatures. Some had been outwitted, not overpowered.
Sema recorded them all.
The Trial Chamber's base became a living record of effort.
Dozens of carcasses laid at its feet—beasts of all sizes and unknown shapes.
Some had been raised from birth by quiet civilians—offered in tears, not triumph. Sema's scribes investigated each one, ensuring no lies passed as strength.
They found none.
The Shadow Blades moved unseen.
One saved a child from being dragged by a wounded beast too stubborn to die. Another retrieved a crippled elder who had followed his son but fallen into a sinkhole. No names were spoken. No gratitude asked.
The watchers returned to the shadows.
Atop the southern ridge, Ben stood silent with Kael, Jaron, Mala, and Enru.
They watched it all.
The tribe was changing again.
New rings. New marks. New voices. New power.
"It's working," Mala said.
Ben nodded.
"They're becoming something more," Kael added.
"Not more," Ben replied. "Just finally becoming… Ikanbi."
Then, near dusk—
A small figure stumbled up the path. A girl—no older than twelve—dragging a beast almost her size. Its fur was matted with blood. Its snout was crushed. Her arms were torn, and one eye swollen shut.
She fell once.
Then rose.
She fell again.
And crawled.
Ben stepped forward and lifted her to her feet before she could speak.
The crowd was silent.
"You are Ikanbi now," he said.
She blinked up at him, tears lost among the dirt and blood.
Then she smiled.
And behind her—a tradition had been born.
While the Trial Chamber filled with the scent of fresh blood and new pride, the wilderness beyond Ikanbi stirred with ancient breath.
The land had not forgotten what it was.
And the people of Ikanbi moved like they belonged to it.
Every forest path, every thicket, every slope carved by snowmelt had become a battlefield of will and instinct.
Some hunters stalked alone in silence, crouched in tall grass, waiting for a rustle.
Others clashed with beasts in raw combat—no armor, no cries—just tooth, spear, and survival.
One two-ringed civilian wrestled a bristle-backed predator into a pit of sharpened wood. Another pair of brothers—one ringed, one not—laid traps deep in the caves near the river bend. One trap caught nothing.
The other caught a beast with tusks as long as their arms.
By day, the forest echoed with movement and breath. By night, with quiet celebration—or grief.
Ikanbians had always known how to fight.
Now they were learning how to thrive.
Below the earth, the Duru tribe's underworld stirred once more.
With the snow melting and the threat of starvation easing, the remaining Duru people began to emerge in waves.
Those who had not followed Mia months ago now followed hunger and hope. Their steps were slow, uncertain—faces thinner, hands more desperate.
They came with nothing but stories and scars.
And they found a world that made no sense to them.
A tribe where strength meant service. Where warriors shared food without counting portions. Where even prisoners could earn a name again.
They had no words for it.
But they began to walk toward it.
Meanwhile, inside the Trial Chamber, the thirteen five-ring warriors continued their silent ascent.
Each stood alone in a room of stone and stillness—Twa Milhoms' presence wordless, endless.
Their bodies were worn. Their minds were sharpened.
And each now stood before the final weapon.
The last test.
A blade, a spear, a rope, a stone—all the tools of the world, given meaning by motion and will.
They did not speak.
They simply moved.
And Twa Milhoms moved before them—no voice, only example.
Again and again and again.
Until the line between god and warrior blurred.
And the final door began to appear behind each of them.
The final motion stilled.
Thirteen warriors—sweat-drenched, muscles trembling, eyes burning with quiet focus—stood each in their own training chamber. Before them, the weapons they had mastered vanished in a shimmer of air and silence.
The room grew still.
Then, from the stone behind them, a new door appeared.
Not carved. Not forged.
Formed.
It hummed with something different—not combat, not strength, not pain. It felt… watchful.
Each warrior turned toward it.
The door opened not with a sound—but a sensation, like breath on the back of the neck.
And they stepped through.
What greeted them inside was not a battlefield.
Not a teacher.
Not even Twa Milhoms.
Each entered a different room.
And in each room, they faced themselves.
A voice that echoed their own.
A memory they had buried.
A choice they had failed to make.
One saw a parent long dead, weeping by a fire.
Another saw a child they left behind to join the militia.
One faced the version of themselves that had run from a beast rather than fight beside a brother.
There were no swords in these chambers.
Only truth.
And Twa Milhoms was nowhere to be seen—yet the air pulsed with his presence.
The gods did not just forge warriors.
They tested souls.
Some screamed.
Some knelt.
Some wept without shame.
But all endured.
And one by one, the rooms released them—not with applause, not with reward—but with understanding.
As each warrior exited into the original central chamber, there was no visible change.
But they were not the same.