The dry winds of late summer stirred the ash pits of Ikanbi, carrying the heat of fire and the sweat of a people reborn.
At the far edge of the main settlement, where the rock had been cleared and smoothed by months of effort, Ben stood over a smoldering forge of stone and clay. He was shirtless, body layered in soot and resolve. Around him, three fire pits fed the furnace. Boji had helped him shape it, but the fire belonged to Ben now.
On a wide slab, the red glow of heated metal pulsed like a heartbeat. Ben gripped the stone mallet with both hands and struck. Sparks flew. The metal bent. Again and again. Hours passed, and when it was done—a simple blade lay before him. No flourishes. Just brutal function.
It was the first.
Not just a weapon—but a door. A future.
Behind him, Mia stood with a bundle of fibrous strands in her hands. Her fingers moved over them, testing the tension, checking the weaves. She had stripped and boiled bark, soaked it in ashwater, and braided it strand by strand into a cloth strong enough to cover the body. She turned it in her hands and smiled. The first tunic—not sewn for beauty, but strength.
A few huts away, Sema sat beside a kiln made of mudbrick and stone, carefully rotating a bowl as it dried. Inside it, water sloshed and didn't leak. She exhaled, then took up a wooden spoon she had carved from oak and placed it inside. Next to her, a set of new jugs waited for firing.
Together—Ben, Mia, and Sema were building the first tools of civilization: metal, fiber, clay.
Meanwhile, the four militia units moved outward.
Kael's Stone Fang unit had claimed a rocky plateau, their bamboo and stone shelters embedded like teeth in the hillside. They began drilling early each morning, running trails through jagged ridges, hauling stone by shoulder to create a fortified perimeter.
Mala's Ash Wind were camped beneath the black pines, making use of natural cover and smoke-layered tactics. They trained in low light and fast bursts, focusing on ambush and coordination between scouts and warriors.
Jaron's Blood Root had chosen the southern marshes—unstable, but fertile. His men dug trenches, built walkways of bundled reeds and stone, and trained in harsh terrain. Sentries were posted even at night; the swamp whispered things the tribe didn't trust.
Enru's Iron Sky patrolled the open flats near the dried riverbed. His unit focused on open-field drills, practicing charge formations and spear walls. They built tall lookouts from timber and stone, watching the distant forests without blinking.
Each camp operated independently but with shared intent—defend Ikanbi from all sides.
In each of the four outposts, one Shadow Blade moved in silence—relaying messages from Ben and Khol, observing weakness, strengths, and patterns. Two Outer Edge warriors were assigned to each unit, never far from the boundary line. They slept light. Their blades were always near.
Ikanbi's main camp buzzed with rhythm. New civilians were learning pottery, hunting, weaving, and construction. Children watched the warriors train and mimicked their movements. Even the former Red Claw and Duru had found their place—those who remained had accepted the new order. Food was distributed according to work, not lineage.
Beyond the territory's edge, smoke curled in the distance.
Other tribes had survived the winter too—but not like Ikanbi.
They were watching.
Ben, hammer still warm in his hands, stared into the forge.
"Soon," he murmured. "We go further."
And from behind him, Mia stepped forward and placed the first tunic beside his blade.
"Then we'll go clothed and armed," she said, almost smiling.
He looked at her.
And nodded.
As the sun curved higher into the sky, the hammering continued.
Ben wiped the sweat from his brow and turned toward the row of stone anvils lined up beside the forge. One by one, blades had begun to appear. Simple at first—daggers, short spears, crude axes—but sharper, deadlier, and more durable than anything the tribe had ever known.
Four special blades were set aside, wrapped in hide. Each was destined for the commanders who guarded Ikanbi's future:
For Kael of Stone Fang: a cleaving sword with jagged teeth at its edge, designed for crushing through bone and shield alike.
For Mala of Ash Wind: twin crescent blades, curved and fast, ideal for her agile ambush strikes.
For Jaron of Blood Root: a thick-bladed machete, capable of cutting through vine, man, or beast in one swing.
For Enru of Iron Sky: a long metal-tipped spear with a hooked end—perfect for holding the line.
Ben laid the weapons across a newly carved table. "Deliver these to them," he told one of the Shadow Blades.
"Tell them… it's just the beginning."
Nearby, five more blades were being shaped. They were for the five-ring warriors assigned to each commander. These warriors, newly risen in rank, now bore the responsibility of elite defense at each outer camp.
Each blade was rough but deadly, a mark of status—and a promise.
A promise that more would come.
Behind the forge, Druel stood in silence. The flame flickered in his eyes.
"I've never seen fire do this," he muttered.
He stepped forward, holding a chunk of blackened ore. "What do you call this again?"
"Ironstone," Ben replied. "It lives in the earth, but it becomes a weapon with enough heat."
Druel rolled it in his palm, then crouched beside the forge, watching the color change as the metal melted and hardened.
"I want to learn," he said.
Ben didn't answer right away.
Then he nodded.
"You'll build the tools of our future," he said. "I'll show you how."
Druel placed the ore down reverently.
"Then let's begin."
The forge glowed brighter.
Ben stepped away from the forge at last. His arms ached, his shoulders burned, but there was pride in his eyes. Wrapped in animal hide and bound in vine cords were four weapons—the first of their kind.
Metal.
Not sharpened stone or hardened wood—but true forged metal. Dense, weighty, and cut with a hunger the old tools never knew.
He slung the bundle over his back and made his way down the ridge path toward the edge of Ikanbi, where the four outer camps had begun to take shape.
Each commander waited.
Kael stood at the front of the Stone Fang camp, shirt off, his hands coated in dirt and sweat from hammering support stakes into the rocky slope. He straightened as Ben approached.
Ben pulled back the hide wrapping and handed him the first blade—a heavy iron-edged sword, broad and flat like a cleaver but longer, with saw-like teeth carved into the rear edge.
Kael took it in silence.
He swung it once through the air—and grinned like a beast.
"It bites," he said.
Ben nodded. "Made to crush. Not just cut."
Next, he moved to Ash Wind camp. Mala greeted him with a raised brow, one arm still wrapped from a recent sparring match.
From the bundle, Ben revealed twin crescent daggers, forged with curved hooks that shimmered silver-blue in the sun. The hilts were wrapped in stretched leather, tight and dry.
She traced the blade's edge with her finger and hissed at the sharpness.
"They'll bleed before they even feel it," she said.
Ben gave a faint smile. "So will you, if you're not careful."
He left her twirling them like they were part of her hands.
At the Blood Root camp, Jaron looked up from a gathering of his warriors. His eyes lit up as Ben unveiled a wide machete, thick at the base and honed to a perfect angle at the tip. Designed to sever limbs or fell small trees in one swing.
Jaron swung it hard into a dead stump. It split in two.
Ben turned away before Jaron could say anything, but he heard the whisper: "Now we hunt properly."
Last came Iron Sky camp. Enru stood high on a ridge, overseeing the shaping of a bamboo palisade.
Ben climbed up and handed him a long spear, its tip forged into a three-prong fang, one of them hooked backward.
Enru turned it slowly, feeling the weight.
"It'll take a beast's neck," he said.
Ben replied, "Or hold a line when we're outnumbered."
The commanders now stood armed in ways no other tribe could match.
Each weapon was heavy, sharp, and stained with the memory of fire. Unlike the brittle stone tools of the past, these did not crack or splinter. They rang with the sound of future wars—of defense, of expansion, of survival.
Ben turned back toward the forge.
More would be needed. Hundreds more.
But for now, the future of Ikanbi held steel in its grip.
After delivering the weapons to the militia commanders, Ben returned to the forge, but only for a moment.
His hand rested on the anvil, fingers still warm from fire and steel. Yet something tugged at him—not the roar of the furnace, but the silence beyond it.
He stepped outside.
From the ridgeline above the forge, Ben scanned the lands of Ikanbi. The four militia camps pulsed with life—Stone Fang, Ash Wind, Blood Root, Iron Sky—each thriving in its own corner of the reclaimed frontier. Smoke rose gently from cooking pits, drills echoed across dirt yards, and newly built homes glinted beneath the sun.
But when Ben narrowed his gaze, the gaps revealed themselves.
The weaving hut lacked hands to meet fiber demands. Pottery production slowed with only two skilled hands under Sema's guidance. Even the hunting routes grew thinner, with many of the best hunters now serving in the militia or gone through trials.
They were growing, yes—but unevenly.
Too few hands, too many tasks.
Ben sat down under a tall tree, arms resting across his knees.
They needed more people.
But not just anyone.
After hours of silent observation and careful thought, he called for the Shadow Blades.
In the shadow of twilight, the elite emerged—silent, cloaked, each one already watching.
Ben didn't give a speech.
Just clear orders.
"There are survivors out there. Some are broken. Some are dangerous. Some… might be worth saving. You know what we stand for. You know what kind of people Ikanbi needs. Find them. Watch them. If they seem like good soil—bring them in."
The Shadow Blades nodded.
"No symbols. No promises. Just an open fire and a second chance. But make sure. If they're poison—cut the root."
That was all.
By the time the sun set, the elite had vanished into the tree lines—heading north, east, and west—where fire still smoldered from ruined villages and the strong preyed on the weak.
Ben returned to the forge and placed his hand back on the anvil.
The fire behind him roared once more—but now, so did the world beyond Ikanbi.
Help was coming for the right people.
For the rest, silence.