They did not move.
One moment they stood on open earth, lined in disciplined ranks under a warming sun.
The next—they were gone.
No flicker. No sound. Just absence.
And then—presence.
A scream would have been mercy.
Instead, the silence hit first. A silence so complete it strangled the breath, crushed the ribs.
The 150 new Ikanbi warriors appeared midstride, and found their feet sinking into mud.
But it wasn't mud.
It was blood.
And bone.
And flesh.
The battlefield stretched beyond what eyes could hold.
A sea of corpses—none intact.
Bodies ripped open. Heads shattered. Arms twisted the wrong way.
Weapons snapped and splintered, tossed like discarded branches after a storm.
No sky above them. Just smoke. No sun. Just red haze.
They stood in the aftermath of a war they had never seen—
and yet now could not forget.
The iron taste of blood coated their tongues, their teeth, their throats.
The stench burned their eyes.
The earth squelched with each step like it begged to be left alone.
And one by one, the warriors fell.
Some dropped to their knees.
Others bent over, retching.
A few simply sat, wide-eyed, unblinking—
lost.
All but one.
Kael stood still.
He did not look around in panic. He did not gag. He did not tremble.
He had seen this place before.
He knew this battlefield.
Not by name—but by lesson.
He had stood in the same blood-soaked silence once, during his own trial under Twa Milhoms.
The others looked to him now—but he offered no words.
Because no words would soften the truth.
This was no battlefield.
This was a mirror.
A mirror held to every warrior's soul.
To see what they might become—
or what might remain of them.
Kael stepped forward, boots crunching bone, blood reaching his ankles.
His eyes did not flinch.
Behind him, the others remained frozen.
There was no voice to welcome them.
No enemy to fight.
No instructions to follow.
Only death.
Only aftermath.
When the 150 warriors reappeared, it was as if the air itself recoiled.
They didn't walk back—they simply were, once again, standing in the wide clearing prepared for them. Their bodies trembled, their faces pale, their eyes haunted. Some fell to their knees without understanding why.
And Kael—Kael stood tall.
He had returned with them, yes. But his breath was steady, his hands calm. Because he had seen this place before. And it had never left him.
From between the crowd, Mala stepped forward carrying a stone bowl. The food inside was hot—smoke rising softly into the morning air. She offered it to Kael without a word.
He sat down on a smooth rock, unbothered by the sounds of dry retching behind him. Without pause, he began to eat—methodically, like it was any other morning. Like the battlefield of blood and shattered bodies hadn't just swallowed and returned them whole.
Some of the soldiers turned away, hands over mouths. Others hunched low, trying to keep from vomiting, while a few gave in, staining the earth beside their feet.
Sema watched in silence from the edge of the clearing. She had warned them. But warnings never softened the first return.
Then Ben walked forward. His presence cut through the tension like a blade through still air.
"You've seen it now," he said, voice level. "What waits inside power."
He looked across the faces, young and old, still struggling to understand what they had witnessed.
"Rest," he added. "You'll need it for the next trial."
Not a single warrior asked what the next trial would be.
None dared.
The next morning came quietly. The mist had not yet lifted from the bamboo grove, and the air still carried the iron scent of memories none of the 150 wanted to recall.
But they were all there.
Listless. Silent. Standing in perfect formation at the training grounds, as if driven by something deeper than will.
And then came Jaron.
He walked toward them slowly, his steps echoing across the stone-lined clearing. His expression was unreadable, carved from experience and shadowed by what was coming. He stopped a few paces in front of the assembled warriors and looked back at the figures who watched from the ridge—Ben, Kael, Mala, Enru.
"I hate that you chose me for this," Jaron said simply.
He faced the 150 again.
And the moment his feet settled into place—
They vanished.
Just like before.
One moment they stood under the morning sun.
The next, the training ground was empty again.
Sema stood at the edge of the cooking quarters, arms folded, eyes sharp.
"They're gone again," she said quietly.
The cooks paused mid-task.
"Put down your fires," she ordered. "We don't cook for them today. Not yet."
Confused glances passed between the younger kitchen hands—especially those from the Duru and Red Claw who had never seen this ritual before.
Sema stepped out into the open and called the senior cooks to her side.
"Bring water—big vessels. Line them along the training grounds. Enough for one hundred and fifty mouths dry from dust and death."
She turned to the newest members of the tribe, her voice rising clear and calm.
"Make way. Keep the river paths open. Don't gather near the training grounds. When they return, they won't see you. They'll see where they just came from."
The people nodded slowly, drawn in by her seriousness.
"And one more thing," Sema added. "No one—no one—stands any closer the Ben, or the commanders. Not unless you want to be stepped on or screamed at."
She adjusted the tie of her wrap, picked up her own jug of water, and began walking toward the training ground herself.
"They'll come back tired," she whispered to herself. "And gods help us if we're not ready."
As soon as they reappeared, the air changed.
Gone was the stillness of the battlefield soaked in blood. Now, the 150 warriors stood on hard, cracked stone surrounded by dark cliffs and towering jagged walls. A vast, circular basin beneath a sky of grey clouds that never moved.
At the center stood Jaron—calm, silent, watchful.
He raised his voice once, sharp and commanding:
"Form a circle around me."
The militia moved fast, instincts kicking in from months of training. Shields out, weapons raised, shoulders touching. A solid ring of defense.
Jaron stepped forward, turning slowly to look each of them in the eye.
"Hold the line," he said. "No matter what comes, defend the ground beneath your feet. You fall, the circle breaks. If the circle breaks, we all die."
Then it began.
A distant howl.
Then another.
Then the thundering of claws on stone.
From the darkness of the outer cliffs, they emerged—beasts unlike any the warriors had seen. Hulking forms covered in matted fur and scaled bone. Eyes that glowed like coals. Mouths too wide, teeth too many. Limbs that moved like broken things reborn.
The first wave slammed into the line.
The militia grunted, roared, held.
Swords clashed. Shields buckled. But they held.
And then the next wave came.
And another.
Each beast worse than the last. Twisted, impossible creatures—nightmares made flesh.
Some warriors screamed. Some wept.
But none ran.
They held the line.
Jaron stood at the center, blade unmoving, eyes burning with purpose. He said nothing more. He didn't need to.
They had heard the command.
Defend the ground. Or die standing