In the beast realm, death had become routine.
They had not slept. Not once. The sky—if there ever was one—never changed. There was no food, no water, no mercy. Only wave after wave of monstrous beasts with eyes that glowed and mouths that screamed like dying gods.
They had held the line for what felt like months, their hands blistered and torn from weapons they never dropped. Even as bones cracked, even as their minds splintered, they held.
Jaron stood at the center of the circle. He bled from a dozen wounds, but his voice never wavered.
"Stand! Until the last breath!"
And they did.
When the final wave came—beasts larger than huts, made of shadow and scaled fury—the warriors met them not with fear, but defiance. Screaming like wild animals themselves, they fought in a frenzy, blood splattering their skin, their legs giving out, their vision swimming.
One by one, they fell.
They expected nothing more.
They had accepted death.
⸻
In Ikanbi, only a few hours had passed.
The snow was thinning now, the air a little warmer, but tension made the sky feel heavier than ever. The training grounds were quiet. Cleared.
Sema stood ready, flanked by silent helpers. She had not let the cooks prepare anything. No meat. No stew. Only water—gallons of it—placed in skins and bowls and carved stone vessels.
She had seen what the divine training did before.
She had made space.
Suddenly—
A scream tore through the air.
Then, a figure—a young two-ring warrior—slammed into the ground, back first, covered in blood, fists clenched tight around an imaginary blade.
He coughed, choking, and rolled to his knees—desperately clawing toward the water.
Before the others could react, another body dropped. Then another. One by one, the warriors returned—not walking, but violently reappearing like the earth had spat them out.
Some were mid-swing, striking at invisible enemies. Others were already screaming as they hit the frozen dirt. One arrived still biting, jaw clenched, frothing at the mouth. Another came gasping like a man drowned.
They scrambled. Crawled. Shoved others aside to get to the water.
Some cried. Some laughed. One lay still for nearly a minute before finally gasping for air and whispering, "I'm alive…?"
Blood covered them all. Some had faces too numb to show emotion. Others dropped to their knees and began punching the ground, howling with grief or rage or confusion.
The people of Ikanbi watched in horror and awe.
The Duru, clustered on a nearby ridge, looked like they'd seen the dead rise. Mia herself stared, frozen, as she watched the 150 warriors return one by one—not as the same people who had left.
Even the Red Claws, hardened from their past lives, stood quiet and still.
Then came Jaron.
He didn't fall.
He appeared standing, blood dripping from his arms, his face hollow with exhaustion. His chest rose and fell slowly, methodically. He looked up at the sky, blinked as if unsure it was real, then walked—barefoot and steady—toward the line of water vessels.
He passed Sema.
He passed the others.
And finally stopped before Ben.
Ben did not ask what happened.
Jaron simply whispered, "It's done."
Then his legs gave out.
Ben caught him before he hit the ground.
Behind them, the rest of the warriors howled, wept, or simply lay still, eyes wide open, staring into nothing.
The second trial had ended.
But it had changed them forever.
They stood along the treeline, near the slope that overlooked the training grounds. The Red Claw prisoners—now housed and fed among the Ikanbi—had come out at the call of Sema's warning. Some leaned on spears. Others stood with arms crossed, skeptical. Most believed they had seen enough blood to never be shaken again.
Then the first warrior screamed into existence, and everything changed.
A young Red Claw hunter, once proud and cruel, dropped his spear.
"Did you see that…?" he whispered. No one answered.
One by one, the Ikanbi militia appeared in chaos—bloodied, screaming, crawling like men ripped from the jaws of hell.
"They're cursed," said an older Red Claw man. But even he took a step back as a warrior burst into existence mid-roar and crumpled near the water bowl, vomiting and laughing.
Among the Duru people, Mia stood near the front, frozen. Her group huddled behind her, wide-eyed and silent.
"These are the ones we live among?" one whispered.
Mia didn't answer. She watched a three-ring woman claw at her throat before slamming her face into the ground, then crawling toward a water bowl with tears streaming down her face. Another man returned curled in a ball, whispering, "Don't let them in… don't let them in…"
A young Duru girl began to cry.
Mia grabbed her arm. "Don't look away," she said. "They're not like us."
They were not warriors.
They were something else.
A man from Mia's group muttered, "No one comes back from death like that. Not unless they left part of themselves behind."
The Red Claws said nothing more. Some backed away. Others stood still, watching with grim respect. They had mocked the Ikanbi for their rituals, for their strange god, for their unity.
Now, none of them laughed.
No Red Claw had ever seen such a return.
No Duru had ever imagined strength could cost that much.
For the first time since winter ended, both tribes—enemies by blood and memory—shared the same silent thought:
We don't understand these people.
And deep within, they feared they never would.
One by one, the chaos subsided.
The warriors—once writhing, groaning, mad with thirst and memory—lay scattered across the training ground. Their breathing slowed. Muscles loosened. Their eyes began to settle. Water soaked their mouths, their throats, their faces.
Then the first warrior who had seen the river stood.
He had not said a word since his return. His hands trembled, not from weakness—but from restraint. His eyes scanned the gathered civilians, the Red Claw, the Duru, and then the wide, flowing river just beyond the training ground.
Without a sound, he stepped away from the group and walked barefoot to the river's edge.
The crowd held its breath.
From below the surface, something massive stirred—an ancient beast hidden in the depths, one that had watched the tribe's movement for weeks without surfacing. Its shape twisted under the water, sensing prey.
But as the warrior approached, the water stilled.
A suffocating wave of killing intent rippled from the man's body. The hairs on every Red Claw and Duru neck stood on end.
Even the beast froze beneath the surface, then slowly drifted deeper into the riverbed, choosing silence over challenge.
The warrior knelt and drank.
When he returned, no one blocked his path. The crowd parted in silence.
Ben stood near the center of the ground, arms folded. His eyes swept over the gathered militia. They had been broken, buried in death, and brought back again.
Now they stood. All of them.
Some still bloody. Others trembling. But none were lost.
Ben raised his voice.
"You survived," he said. "And you're still standing."
A few heads nodded. One woman clenched her jaw and nodded again.
"Rest now," Ben continued. "Eat. Breathe. Stretch your legs. Because soon…"
He looked toward the bamboo forest beyond the far ridge.
"…you'll enter the next training ground."
He turned, cloak whipping behind him, and walked away.
Behind him, the militia slowly began to move—some limping, some helping each other—but all alive.
The Red Claw and Duru silently stepped aside, unsure if they were watching men…
…or monsters.