They hadn't spoken for hours.
Each step hurt. Not from wounds—but from the weight of everything lost.
The trees had thinned. The scent of smoke floated lightly in the wind. Somewhere ahead, something warm… something alive.
The woman carrying her son gripped her broken walking stick harder. A boy no older than ten helped pull a sled made of vine and bark, carrying a half-conscious elder. Their group was small—twelve in total, pulled together by fear and guided by faint signs etched into the forest trail.
Someone had whispered the name Ikanbi days ago. No one truly believed it.
Until now.
The first thing they saw was not a gate, not a wall, but a line of warriors—tall, still as trees, eyes like stone. No one moved. No one spoke.
Each bore a mark over the left brow. A ring surrounded by rope-like curves.
Some had five.
Weapons rested beside them—strange metal pieces with edges that reflected the dying sun.
The survivors froze.
The woman with the child felt the boy tremble next to her. The sled stopped moving. One man behind her whispered something about a mistake—that maybe this was the edge of a death tribe.
One of the warriors stepped forward. Just one.
He didn't raise a weapon. Didn't speak. He only stared at them… then pointed to the firelight beyond the bamboo houses in the distance.
No one moved.
He stepped to the side. Still no words. Just space—an invitation.
The woman's throat tightened. Her body screamed to run. But her son gripped her hand tighter and whispered:
"They're not chasing us. They're… letting us in."
She took one step.
Then another.
The warriors didn't flinch.
Behind them, a breeze swept the scent of hot stew and boiled water. They walked through the invisible line.
Children in cloth skirts ran between houses. Pottery steamed near the fire pits. Women stirred baskets of dried herbs. Warriors trained in silence—but none stopped to stare. No one pushed them back. No one asked what they had to trade.
Instead, a young man in simple clothing came forward with two others. His voice was calm. "You'll get a space soon. You're not the first."
He looked at the child and bent to one knee. "You hungry, little one?"
The boy nodded without a word.
"Good. Then come. We all share here."
The woman could barely hold her tears.
Behind her, the man who feared death whispered again. But this time… he whispered thanks.
And as the sun fell behind the tree line,
the survivors entered Ikanbi—
a place where no one asked where they came from,
only whether they would stay.
The new arrivals stood at the edge of the militia checkpoint, cloaks clinging to gaunt shoulders, eyes hollowed by hunger and disbelief. Most had traveled for days without food, some dragging makeshift sleds with what little they had left—bones of family, cloth bundles, crude tools. They were not warriors. They were survivors.
And they had expected war at the gates.
Instead, they were met by silence. Four warriors in stone-and-hide armor stood at the entrance, marked not by weapons raised—but by stillness. Behind them loomed the outer ramparts of Ikanbi, bamboo and stone walls rising like a scar against the earth. A militia warrior stepped forward—not with orders, but with a question.
"Will you work? Will you follow rules?"
That was it.
No screaming. No clubs. No forced worship. No gods screaming for blood.
Just a choice.
Some wept. Others nodded and collapsed. The Ikanbi militia carried them inside.
—
Inside the tribe, the air held the smell of metal and fiber. Near the blacksmith area, Ben stood hunched over an anvil, hammering out the final edge of a short blade—thicker and sharper than any stone tool the tribe had ever known. Four other weapons, forged in the same fire, had already been distributed—one each to Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru. Their grip was heavier. Their edge less forgiving.
Those weapons were not tools. They were commitments.
On the southern field, new combat drills began—five-ring warriors adjusting their stances to compensate for weight and swing. For the first time, the Ikanbi were not just surviving—they were preparing.
Ben watched them move, his expression unreadable. He knew the weapons would shift how they fought. He also knew they would shift how others viewed them.
—
Across the training hills and forest edges, the Shadow Blades moved like whispers—observing clusters of roaming survivors, studying groups from afar. Some were left alone. Others were followed. When deemed worthy, a single Shadow Blade would step from the trees and say one thing:
"There is a place for you—if you can reach it."
No promises. No protection.
Just a thread of hope.
—
At the center of the growing tribe, Sema organized new storage pits reinforced with layers of clay and packed soil. Large leaves, dried bark, and clean sand were used to seal openings. Mia wove newly harvested fiber into stretchable cords and wrapped them around bundles of foraged roots and dried meat.
They worked side by side, measuring, sorting, lifting, marking.
Infrastructure, they called it.
But it was more than that—it was permanence.
—
Far beyond the reach of Ikanbi eyes, figures watched.
Not beasts. Not monsters.
People.
Tribes with their own gods and rules. Some envious. Some afraid. Some hungry.
They saw the smoke from Ikanbi's fires. They saw the walls. They saw the people walking in and never coming out.
They began to whisper.
And though no arrows had yet flown…
The watchers were no longer just watching.
They came with dust on their feet and fear in their chests—small clusters of survivors trickling in from the wilds. Some had crossed mountains. Others had escaped slavers. Most had survived by luck, hiding in burrows and abandoned dens during the long cold.
But as they passed the militia checkpoint and entered Ikanbi's main camp, the world changed.
There were warriors—yes, powerful, marked warriors. Some bore three rings, others five or more. But they didn't lounge or posture. They were running drills. Sparring. Practicing movements again and again, as if they had never held a blade before. This confused the new arrivals more than anything.
"They train… even now?" one man whispered.
"No one's watching them," said a woman, clutching her child.
"Then who do they train for?"
No one had the answer.
Further in, the sounds of hammers echoed in rhythmic bursts. Blacksmiths—not just shaping stone—but forging with metal. Iron glinted in the sun. Heavy blades leaned against racks. Spears with darkened tips gleamed beside piles of raw ore.
The people were… clean.
Children laughed as they bathed in shallow stone troughs filled from irrigation trenches. Women washed their hands before preparing food. Clay bowls and wooden spoons were being dipped in warm water, wiped with clean cloths, then used to serve thick root stew.
Some new arrivals couldn't hide their awe. Others wept. One elder fell to his knees.
"This isn't a tribe," he murmured. "This is a people."
Those who had known only chaos—who had come from tribes where strength meant cruelty, where food was hoarded and women fought men for a scrap of fire—could not understand this place.
But the people of Ikanbi welcomed them anyway.
They were told the rules: contribute, train if you wish, obey your leaders, and live with dignity. Warriors did not eat first. They ate last. Children and elders were always fed before strength. And no one raised a weapon without purpose.
They saw Shadow Blades moving in silence between tents, delivering messages without speaking. They saw pottery lined neatly on drying racks, filled with grains and herbs. They saw a tribe where not just survival—but order had taken root.
And so the people kept coming—guided, frightened, hungry—but drawn by something most had never felt before:
Hope.