The clang of metal broke the morning silence.
On the far edge of the Ikanbi training grounds, warriors stood in tight formations. Their hands wrapped around iron—real iron. Heavy. Sharp. Unforgiving.
Ben stood under the rising sun, his gaze fixed on the combat pits. The first generation of Ikanbian iron weapons had been distributed. Not ceremonial, not symbolic. Tools for killing. Axes with crude edges. Swords that bent slightly when struck too hard. Spears with jagged tips that could split bone. They were rough, but they were real—and they were the beginning of something terrifying.
He watched a four-ring warrior swing his blade, missing the target and losing balance. The iron didn't move like stone. It demanded control.
"Again," Ben said.
No one questioned. The warrior picked himself up and tried again.
Behind them, Sema and Mia were coordinating the building of new clay water basins near the fields. Irrigation channels were being dug using metal-bladed hoes—primitive, but effective. With every swing, the land itself bent to Ikanbi's will. Storage pits lined the walls now, dug deep and sealed with woven fiber and clay lids to hold food for months.
But the real threat wasn't the struggle to survive.
It was the silence just beyond the trees.
In the deep brush past the southern ridge, a Shadow Blade named Yuso knelt in the undergrowth, barely breathing. His eyes tracked a figure cloaked in leaves—a scout, unfamiliar. Too confident for a beast, too curious for a wanderer. Not one of theirs.
A second figure appeared, then a third. Silent signs passed between them in a language foreign to Ikanbi.
Yuso retreated. He would not engage. His job was not to fight—but to see.
Elsewhere, a Shadow Blade named Renna stalked a group of wild humans wearing bone masks and carrying clubs fashioned from skulls and bark. They moved in packs, feral and half-starved. She watched from the trees as they gutted a weaker group, stripping them of furs and meat before vanishing into the forest again.
All across the land, something was shifting.
Ikanbi was no longer a mystery.
It was a threat.
Back in the main camp, Kael stood at the head of Stone Fang's outer perimeter. His men had stopped training with stone weapons entirely. Their bamboo housing creaked with the weight of sharpened iron hung along the walls. Blood Root, Ash Wind, and Iron Sky did the same. Each militia base, positioned along the outer edge of Ikanbi, was no longer just a defense—they were the front line of a new way of life.
Children in the main village were now drinking from clay cups. Meals were eaten with crude spoons. The air was thick with the scent of burning wood, boiled grain, and metal cooling.
Then came the scouts.
Word reached Ben that two of the largest tribes in the region—the Moon's Blood Tribe and the Reb Gang—had been spotted by multiple Shadow Blades. They did not approach. They only watched.
Watched the growing forge fires.
Watched the iron blades gleam in the sunlight.
Watched a new kind of tribe take root in a world that only knew hunger, bone, and domination.
They did not speak.
They did not shout.
But they would come.
Because in Ayesha, to grow stronger, one must devour.
And Ikanbi was a feast in the making.
Night in Ikanbi was never silent.
The crickets hissed. The bamboo groaned in the wind. Somewhere, something always stirred.
But that night… the forest went still.
Yuso's blade was already drawn before the first scream.
From the east, a low horn—deep and bone-carved—howled like a dying beast.
Shadow Blades leapt into motion. Runners bolted through the jungle, silent as ghosts, whispering warnings to each camp. But they were already late. They'd seen the signs, tried to delay with sabotage and misleading trails—but the Moon's Blood and Reb Gang had committed to attack. Not with armies… with monsters.
The treeline exploded.
A hulking figure, limbs warped by rot and hunger, slammed into Iron Sky's outer defenses. Five-ring warriors responded instantly—spears flashed, blades bit deep—but these beasts did not feel pain. Bone clubs crushed ribs. Teeth sank into flesh. Warriors roared back.
From the west, Ash Wind's camp was swallowed by black shapes. Not beasts, not men—something in-between. They moved like shadows but fought like demons, screeching, raking with claws sharpened by stone.
Enru led the charge himself, iron blade dripping. He cut one down, then two more, but they kept coming—crawling over corpses, howling for blood. His men held.
Ben emerged from the forge, shirtless, face streaked with soot. He didn't speak. He didn't command.
He ran.
A metal axe in one hand, a torch in the other.
Jaron met him halfway, both silent. They moved toward Blood Root. That was where the most screaming came from.
The attackers were not seeking conquest.
They were feeding.
Sema's Watch
From the central firepit, Sema rallied civilians. Children were pushed into the clay bunkers. Women armed with sharpened sticks stood ready. She passed out the last of the stone weapons. Not everyone would survive.
Mia stood on the forge wall, torch in hand, watching the chaos in the jungle. She turned to run, to warn someone—when a body crashed beside her.
A boy. Maybe fifteen. A four-ring.
He was split from shoulder to hip.
She froze. Then moved.
She dragged him to Sema. He was already dead.
The Line Holds
Kael stood at the gates to Stone Fang.
"Close it," he said.
His voice didn't shake.
Inside the wall, two Shadow Blades dropped from the trees—coated in blood, one limping. "They're everywhere," one muttered. "Not a war party. A purge."
Kael nodded. "Then let's remind them who we are."
The gate stayed shut.
The enemy never got past it.
Ben and the Beast
Ben found it in the smoke.
A creature as tall as two men, shoulders bursting with tumors, eyes glowing with stolen fire. It carried the skull of a god on its back.
It roared.
Ben didn't.
He simply swung.
The axe cleaved through jaw, then shoulder, then into its chest. It didn't die at first. It laughed. But then Ben twisted the axe and ripped it free, splitting the thing down the middle.
When he looked up, dozens more were watching him.
He lifted his axe again.
At Dawn
By the time the sun rose, the blood had dried on Ikanbi soil.
Of the attacking horde, nothing lived. Ikanbi lost twelve warriors—no more.
The rest of the tribe stood—bloodied, bruised, breathless.
But alive.
And for the first time in Ayesha's history… a tribe had been attacked by two others and won without divine intervention.
No god had come.
Only iron, discipline, and fire.