The clang of iron echoed through the open courtyard of Ikanbi. Warriors stood in ordered lines beneath the morning sun, their bodies glistening with sweat, hands gripping newly forged weapons—long spears, thick short blades, and curved hooks. Each metal weapon was heavier and sharper than the old stone tools, demanding more control, more balance. Sparks flew at the forge behind them, where Druel continued his work beside Ben, both of them covered in soot, firelight dancing across their arms.
"Again," Kael called out, stepping forward with his iron blade. "One swing, three breaths. Feel the weight. Let the weapon teach you."
The militia responded in unison, blades flashing, feet shifting, learning the rhythm of the metal.
Far from the clang of the courtyard, Shadow Blades moved without sound.
They traveled in pairs or alone, skimming through the dense green canopy, silent observers of the world beyond Ikanbi. From mountaintops and cliffs, they watched distant tribes gather, some hunting, others simply starving. No tribe had dared to step near Ikanbi's borders—not since the last snowfall. But shadows were shifting.
In one village, a young Shadow Blade sat in a tree for three days, studying a warband of painted warriors sharpening bone and flint.
"They're not ready," he whispered into a small carved stone. His words would be carried back in silence.
Beneath the central hill, women and older men bent over the newly dug irrigation trenches. Clay pipes made from Sema's designs funneled water to shallow pools, feeding new farming plots protected by woven fences. Wooden rakes and iron-edged hoes scraped soil loose for planting. Children ran between the rows, laughing, learning.
A few hundred paces away, a stone-lined pit was being filled with smoked fish and dried roots—an early form of cold storage that would serve the tribe through the next cold season.
At the militia's outer base, a new group of survivors arrived.
They came weary and thin, eyes darting nervously at the sight of armored warriors standing in rows, training with iron weapons. At first, they huddled, whispering warnings to each other.
But when they were handed water and a clay bowl of food without being asked for anything in return, confusion settled into disbelief.
A child among them tugged at his mother's tunic. "Are they… giving us food?"
From the shadows, one of the Outer Edge warriors watched silently, spear across his back. Behind him, a Shadow Blade leaned against the bamboo gatepost, arms folded.
The newest arrivals would soon learn: this was Ikanbi.
Ben stood atop a small rise, watching it all.
From his vantage point, he saw the forge, the militia, the new homes rising near the camps, the rows of trenches and tilled earth. He said nothing, only nodded once to himself.
The world beyond them remained wild, brutal, and waiting.
But Ikanbi—bit by bit—was no longer just surviving.
It was becoming something more.
Inside Ikanbi, the tribe thrived.
The warriors trained with discipline no other tribe had seen.
Citizens moved with purpose.
Children learned balance, not just survival.
Cooking was done in clay bowls.
Water was fetched in shaped vessels.
Even eating had changed—no longer with bare hands, but with wooden forks and spoons.
Clothing wrapped cleaner around their bodies.
Tools were shaped with sharpness and care, not broken from bone and hope.
The Ikanbi did not shout about their strength.
They moved in silence.
And the world around them noticed.
In the eastern wildlands, the Red Fang Tribe, a tribe who serve wolf god heard of Ikanbi through wind-burned scouts.
"They train even after becoming powerful."
"Their warriors don't live among the people."
"They build. They carve earth. They dig deep."
Red Fang laughed at first.
But their war chief did not.
He had seen this pattern before.
Not in his lifetime, but in the songs of the Old Ones.
"They change the ground itself," he said one night.
"Not even spirits can do that without consequence."
Far to the south, the Stone Eaters began to grow uneasy.
Their scouts brought stranger news:
"The tribe called Ikanbi doesn't just fight. They organize."
"They do not raid. They welcome others."
"They dig holes in the ground to store food… not just for now. For later."
One of the elder warriors spat into the fire.
"That is not survival. That is something else. Something unnatural."
From the crags of the north came word to the Moss-Blood Clans, a people of hunters and shadows.
They did not mock.
They only listened.
And they whispered:
"Their god must walk with them daily."
"Or they are no longer bound to the same world."
Across the lowlands, in forest and field, cave and coast, the whispers spread:
Ikanbi was not growing like a tribe.
It was building like something new.
Their warriors were shaped in silence.
Their people built tools with care.
Their homes did not rot or fall with the rains.
They had not sent out war cries, yet they shook the wilds without drawing a blade.
And the strangest part?
None of the other tribes understood why Ikanbi did what it did.
"Why separate warriors from the people?"
"Why shape dirt into cups?"
"Why prepare for the future, when survival is today?"
But they saw one thing clearly:
Ikanbi had not lost a single warrior.
Not to war.
Not to cold.
Not to famine.
That was not natural.
That was power—and it terrified them more than war.
And still, within Ikanbi… the fires burned warmly.
The warriors trained before sunrise.
And Ben watched his tribe grow—not in size, but in direction.
They weren't chasing survival.
They were creating something new.
In the dead forest where no bird dared perch, the Moss-Blood Tribe and the Red Fang Tribe gathered. No greetings. No drums. Only silence and the scent of rot and blood.
Their gods appeared—one from the roots, dripping black sap; the other from a blaze of smoke and gnashing fangs. They spoke no words of strategy, no plans, no warnings.
Only hunger.
Their desire was not vengeance.
Not fear.
Not envy.
Only the will to consume.
They had felt it—something pulsing from afar. A new power. A tribe swelling in strength.
They did not care why.
They only knew one truth:
"To grow, we devour."
Ikanbi would be next.
Its bones would be stripped.
Its people broken.
Its god torn apart and swallowed whole.
So the Moss-Blood and the Red Fang joined—not as allies, but as predators drawn to the scent of flesh.
No more words were needed.
They would watch.
Then strike.
Then feed.