The summer heat had returned in full, and with it came the rhythm of progress in Ikanbi.
Smoke curled from the forge Ben had constructed with Boji's help—a stone-walled shelter, vented with carefully carved channels to feed air to the fire. The heat inside was merciless, but Ben stood shirtless, body streaked in soot and sweat, hammering down on metal until sparks danced across the stone floor. He had done it—refined ore into ingots and ingots into blades. Crude by the standards of the world he had seen during training with Twa Milhoms, but to Ikanbi, they were miracles.
Outside the forge, four metal weapons lay cooling: one for each commander. The blades were heavier than stone, thicker at the spine, sharp enough to bite deep with every swing. No warrior who held one would mistake it for anything primitive. It was an edge the tribe had never known.
Ben stepped away from the forge at last, wiping grime from his brow. His work was not done—but it was time to step back and look at the tribe as a whole.
Across Ikanbi, growth had become a living thing.
The four militia camps—Stone Fang under Kael, Ash Wind under Mala, Blood Root under Jaron, and Iron Sky under Enru—had reclaimed land at the very edge of Ikanbi territory. Their homes were built with thick bamboo supports and stone reinforcement, distant from the central village but connected by trail and purpose. Each base was both a home and a fortress, manned by disciplined warriors and protected by two Outer Edge elites and a Shadow Blade assigned to relay messages between Ben, Khol, and the commanders.
Civilians had joined in the land reclamation effort. Children hauled stones. Elders wove mats for the floors. Even former Red Claws and Duru were contributing, their pasts irrelevant in the face of shared survival.
Mia had moved closer to the central weaving structure, guiding her growing team of fiber-workers. The bark of the chosen tree—found and returned by the Shadow Blades—was soaked, stripped, and pulped into threads. With deft fingers and relentless drive, Mia twisted the first strand of a new future, spinning clothing that would soon replace the brittle leathers and scraps worn through winter.
Not far from her, Sema shaped her second generation of clayware. Bowls and cups dried in the sun, but now she added spoons and forks, simple in design but revolutionary for the way Ikanbi would eat. The tribe was no longer scavenging. It was preparing.
Ben watched it all in silence, perched on a ridge overlooking the village. He saw growth—yes—but also strain. The forges needed more hands. The fields more farmers. The patrols more eyes. Ikanbi was expanding faster than its manpower.
That night, under a moon like polished bone, he summoned the Shadow Blades. No words of glory. No call to arms. Just a quiet order:
"Find the survivors. Watch them first. Those who can walk with us—guide them here. No banners, no force. Just silent steps and safe passage."
And they moved like ghosts into the dark.
The morning haze still clung to the land when the call to training rang out across all four militia camps.
Ben had returned to his forge, sweat already slick on his brow, but his eyes often drifted toward the sound of drills and shouting voices.
Across the reclaimed grounds, the militia had begun the next phase of training: mastering the weight and sharpness of iron.
The difference was immediate. Stone weapons were crude, useful for hacking and bludgeoning. But iron was different—unforgiving in both handling and effect. Each blade demanded discipline. Each swing had consequence.
At Stone Fang, Kael watched as his warriors ran basic drills with iron swords. A few bore light cuts already—accidental nicks where they had mishandled grip or distance.
"No more guessing," Kael barked. "These are not the stones you once threw at the wind. You misjudge a swing now, and you'll be holding your guts with both hands."
Nearby, a young warrior struggled with a curved blade, his balance thrown by the unexpected weight. Kael stepped in, corrected his footing, and had him begin again—slower this time, deliberate.
At Ash Wind, Mala ordered her warriors through sweeping maneuvers and slashing combinations, testing the flow of motion. Iron required precision. Their light-footed style had to adapt.
"Swing wide," she warned one of her lieutenants, "and you expose your ribs. These blades bite both ways."
They practiced until arms shook, until sweat dripped onto the hard soil, and their hands were blistered raw. Yet none of them quit.
At Blood Root, Jaron had taken a different approach.
He stood silently as his warriors practiced cutting through thick stalks of dried bamboo. Each warrior had to split five stalks in clean motion. Not hack. Not batter. Slice.
Those who failed repeated the set. Again. And again.
"We do not carry iron to look powerful," Jaron said. "We carry iron to end threats with one strike."
At Iron Sky, Enru's warriors trained high and low, alternating between elevated platforms and forest floor. Spears of iron, longer and heavier than their stone ancestors, required deeper stances and tighter grips.
Enru moved among his soldiers without a word, occasionally adjusting a grip, tilting a shoulder, or shifting a stance by tapping a warrior's thigh with the flat of his blade.
The clang of metal striking wood and bone-shaped targets echoed across the reclaimed land. The sound was new—metal ringing like distant thunder, announcing a new age of warfare.
No other tribe had this.
No other tribe could imagine it.
These were not the wild flurries of desperation seen in the old days. This was something calculated, trained, honed—something more.
While the clang of iron rang across the militia camps, there were others who moved with no sound at all.
The Shadow Blades—a force unseen by most, but always present—slipped between the trees, crouched in tall grass, and perched in the rafters of bamboo-built watchpoints. Their numbers had grown slowly, from ten to twenty-five, but not a single one had been accepted without trial by blood, silence, and darkness.
Each militia camp had one assigned Shadow Blade—never seen in formation, never in ranks, but always nearby.
At Stone Fang, while Kael's warriors trained with sword and shield, the Shadow Blade there moved along the outer edge, watching how quickly the newer recruits adjusted to the balance of iron. He took note of hesitation in their footwork, stiffness in their stances, and the speed of recovery after missed swings.
That night, he whispered his observations to Kael by the fire. No one else heard him arrive. No one saw him leave.
At Ash Wind, the Shadow Blade stood high in a tree, motionless as the wind brushed leaves around him. He observed Mala's warriors train with coordinated movement, assessing how they managed group tactics with iron weapons. When two soldiers grew too reckless in their swings, he later approached Mala—not with criticism, but with options. His voice was low, sharp, gone before she could fully turn toward it.
At Blood Root, the Shadow Blade passed silently among tents and training rings, leaving carved symbols in bark and stones to mark progress or failure. Jaron, fluent in the meaning of every symbol, knew which warriors were losing confidence and which were adapting without error. He adjusted the training accordingly, never revealing how he knew.
At Iron Sky, Enru did not wait for reports. He walked through the fog each morning and found simple iron tokens left near his command post—one for injury, two for weakness, three for potential. No names, no words. But it was enough.
The Shadow Blades did more than watch. They guided.
When a young warrior lost his grip on his weapon in frustration, a Shadow Blade returned it before he even turned to find it.
When a group was practicing late and a predator neared from the tree line, the creature was found dead the next morning—its throat cut clean, no trace of the blade that had done it.
They were the whisper behind the growth, the hand that never forced but always nudged.
None of the Shadow Blades sought praise. None needed acknowledgment.
They lived for one purpose: to guard Ikanbi's future from the dark places no one else dared to look.
And in the silence between the clangs of metal, in the places the fires didn't reach, they watched—unblinking.
By midday, the warriors were panting. Muscles ached. Backs burned. But their eyes gleamed.
They were learning.
They were becoming dangerous in a way the world had never known.