The morning sun hovered just above the treetops, casting a soft light across the militia training ground. A hush settled over the field. At the edge of the clearing stood Kael and Jaron—waiting.
They hadn't gone this time.
Mala had been in charge of the militia for this trial. Ben had taken Sema and Mia with him on a separate mission. While the warriors defended the wall in a foreign world of order and steel, Ben's focus was different.
He went to learn the art of blacksmithing—how to forge metal, shape tools, and design weapons beyond anything their stone age had allowed. Sema, despite her civilian role, studied the creation and use of claymore blades and the crafting of durable tools. And Mia was sent to learn the skill of weaving fabrics—how to create coverings that could last through seasons and storms.
And now, they were returning.
Without sound or warning, the first to appear was Ben—stepping into the clearing, his arms cradling Mia, who looked exhausted and stunned. Dust clung to her clothes, and her eyes searched the sky in disbelief. Behind him came Sema, dragging a broken spear, her face streaked with soot but her steps steady.
Jaron rushed to her side and caught her by the arms.
"I'm fine," she whispered. "It was… a lot."
Jaron just nodded, unable to speak.
Then Mala returned—wounded, blood crusted down her shoulder and side, but walking tall. She had held the militia together through the storm of arrows, through the long hours of defensive struggle. Kael moved to her without hesitation, placing a firm hand on her back. She let out a deep breath and leaned into him.
One by one, the rest of the militia reappeared.
Some staggered. Some crawled. Others dropped to their knees, staring at their hands, bloodied not from real wounds—but from the memory of them. They had defended a wall in a war not their own. They had fought until death claimed them—and then returned to Ikanbi.
No one spoke of what they saw.
But the look in their eyes told everything.
Ben said nothing as he passed through the cleared field that Sema had prepared the day before. Mia rested silently in his arms. He gave a small nod to Kael, then to Jaron, and kept walking.
Enru stepped forward, voice sharp and clear:
"REST! Water. Food. Prepare your minds. We begin again tomorrow."
And so the moment passed.
Civilians brought water. Warriors slumped into seated positions, hands trembling as they drank. Some cried quietly. Others laughed, not knowing why.
Kael never left Mala's side.
Jaron held Sema as if the weight of her survival would never be enough to thank the gods.
And Ben, with Mia and Sema, disappeared into the path leading to his home.
They had seen a glimpse of another world.
But they were still Ikanbi.
And they were not done yet.
At first light, a deep silence lay over Ikanbi.
Mist clung low across the ground, cold and still. The training ground was surrounded by watchers who knew better than to step too close. The morning air was dense with the memory of the last trial—of screams, blood, and silent return.
At the center of the training ground stood a newly erected statue of Twa Milhoms—tall, unmoving, and rough-hewn from stone. Its features were solemn, carved to resemble the god in thought rather than fury. It stood as a warning more than a symbol.
In front of the statue stood Enru—his arms crossed behind his back, his gaze locked on the stone face as though waiting for it to blink. Behind him, the 150 newly marked militia warriors stood at attention, their bodies tense and eyes sharp. They were no longer green. They had tasted madness.
But this trial would be different.
Around the field, the seasoned militia stood far back. Even Ben, Kael, Jaron, and Mala stood at the far perimeter. None of them dared step into the training ground. Those who had already faced Twa Milhoms' trials respected the boundary. The soil beneath that statue belonged to the god.
Sema moved through the onlookers with precision. "Everyone who is not part of the training—step back. Far back," she ordered. "Civilians, cooks, new tribe members—get clear of the field."
She motioned to her assistants, and they began placing barrels of water, clean cloth, and woven mats outside the edge of the training ground. She pointed to the far end. "Set up recovery tents there. Make sure nothing blocks the river paths."
Even Mia obeyed, silently backing away to watch from the shaded edge of a nearby tree. Her eyes flicked to Ben, who stood with arms crossed, unreadable.
The statue of Twa Milhoms gave no signal, but Enru took a deep breath and stepped forward. He turned to face the militia.
"This is not a dream," he said quietly. "You are awake. You are standing. And from this point forward—you fight as Ikanbi. For Ikanbi."
Then he raised his arm.
The statue's shadow stretched across the field.
The ground trembled—not with magic, but with the echo of footsteps.
The trial had begun.
From the edges of the forest, no sound—slow, steady, deep as thunder.
The militia braced themselves, weapons ready.
They did not disappear.
There would be no vanishing this time.
The trial was here. And so were they.
The training ground was silent.
A statue of Twa Milhoms stood tall, carved from the dark stone pulled from the heart of the mountain. It radiated no warmth, no presence—just silence. But everyone knew what it meant.
The 150 new warriors stood in formation. At their front, Enru exhaled and stepped forward alone. The other commanders—Kael, Jaron, Mala—stood far from the training ground, as did Ben. Even those who had passed this trial before refused to come near. Sema had already ordered the civilians, children, and the newly marked to stay well beyond sight.
Enru's gaze was sharp, locked on the statue.
And then, he released it—his own killing intent. Focused. Controlled. Directed at the god's effigy.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the air cracked.
From the statue of Twa Milhoms, an invisible pressure swept the ground. It was not loud. There was no roar or blast. Just presence—terrible, absolute. A killing intent so refined it didn't threaten; it promised.
It promised death.
Only 0.0000000001% of Twa Milhoms' full might spilled out, yet it was enough. One by one, the warriors dropped to their knees. Some convulsed. Others collapsed in silence. Many vomited, their bodies unable to comprehend the command their spirits were receiving:
Die.
No resistance. No heroics. Their souls did not fight. They simply prepared to embrace death.
Even Enru, seasoned and strong, fell forward, barely catching himself.
Eyes wide. Lungs frozen. His vision blurred.
He could see nothing but the statue.
He could feel nothing but his end.
And then—it stopped.
Just as quickly as it came, the pressure vanished. The statue returned to stone. The world returned to breath.
But the warriors remained on the ground, twitching, gasping, or whispering prayers they hadn't said since childhood.
Ben watched in silence. His arms folded.
Sema approached carefully and knelt beside one of the youngest. She placed a cloth to his lips and whispered something only he heard.
The trial was over.
They had endured.
But it had left its mark.
itself knew what was coming.
The 150 warriors stood once again in the training ground. Their bodies were bruised, their spirits scarred from the previous day. None had slept. Few had spoken. But all had returned.
This time, it was Ben who stood before the statue.
He said nothing.
He did not gesture.
He simply stood, back straight, facing the cold stone effigy of Twa Milhoms as the final warrior entered the circle.
And then—he released it.
Ben's killing intent rolled across the field like a silent storm. It was not wild or explosive. It was disciplined, shaped, devastating in its precision. Every heart that stood behind him felt its weight, its pressure—like a mountain balancing on a thread, ready to fall.
The statue stirred.
Its stone form did not move—but it spoke.
Not with sound, but with a voice that bypassed ears and struck the soul directly.
"You return to the place of death. You who seek to kill… must first know what it means to carry it."
The statue's surface began to glow with dull crimson cracks, as if heated from within.
"You felt my will yesterday. Today… you will learn to survive it."
A new pulse of killing intent erupted from the statue—not as crushing as before, but deliberate, endless, like a current of heat pouring into a clay vessel.
"Do not resist it," the voice said. "Breathe it in. Let it pass through your bones. Let it feed the seed that sleeps in you."
Warriors dropped to their knees—but none collapsed.
The voice continued, calmer now, more intimate:
"Every killer must plant their own death inside them. A weapon with no death within is just a blade with no weight."
Ben remained still, his back to them, his own killing intent now locked in a cold standoff with the god's.
"Feel your fear. Swallow it. Bury it in the pit of your being. That is your root. That is where the seed will grow."
For what felt like hours, the warriors endured. Trembling. Sweating. Some wept as the presence of Twa Milhoms brushed against them again and again, this time not as a death sentence—but as a forge.
And slowly, within each one, a flicker began.
A heat behind the eyes. A pressure in the chest. A seed.
The seed of death. Their own killing intent—small, faint, but theirs.
Twa Milhoms' voice faded.
And silence returned.
Ben turned to face them. His eyes swept across the 150.
Most were kneeling. Some had fallen on their backs. But none were broken.
"You've touched the edge of a god's will," he said. "Now… carry it with you."