The Shadow Blade returned at dusk, silent and deliberate. He knelt before Ben and laid down a strip of leather—etched with a symbol made from bone and soot. A tribal sigil, not one of weakness, but one of proximity.
"They are close," the Shadow Blade said. "Too close."
Ben examined the marking. He'd seen it before—on scattered survivors and hunters near the southern fringe.
"Bark-Eater tribe," Kael said from across the fire. "They've been there for a long time."
"They have walls," Mala added. "Weapons. Order. They are not animals."
Ben stood, gaze shifting toward the tree line where the wind spoke no words. The jungle had quieted. Even the night insects seemed to wait.
"They are not weak," Ben said. "But they are near."
He turned to the others—Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru—each of them veterans of war, each understanding without the need for more words.
"We go at dawn."
At sunrise, the Ikanbi warriors marched.
Forty of them. Iron-armed, stone-disciplined. Seven from each militia unit. Four Shadow Blades. One commander from each camp. Ben at the front.
They didn't hide their approach. They wanted to be seen.
The jungle parted for them. Beasts moved aside. Trees shuddered. The very air recoiled from the weight of their killing intent.
The Bark-Eater sentries saw them long before they reached the tribal edge. Horns were not sounded. Warriors gathered with bone spears and stone hatchets, iron-less but organized. Their stance was tense—but not afraid.
Ben stopped before their outer ring. No one raised a weapon.
He stepped forward alone.
The Bark-Eater leader came to meet him. A broad man with bark-scarred arms and eyes like granite. He said nothing, waiting.
Ben placed a single stone on the ground between them.
"You're too close," he said. "You see our growth. We see yours."
He pointed toward the jungle behind him.
"We're not here to conquer. But we won't allow you this close to our heart. You have two choices: surrender, or move farther from Ikanbi's breath."
"If you stay, we'll burn this place to ash. Not out of hate—but because we must."
A silence stretched between them.
Then the Bark-Eater leader looked past Ben—at the Ikanbi formation, at the iron, at the unified discipline.
He nodded once.
"Three days," he said. "We will go."
Ben nodded back.
"Three days."
Three days later, the Bark-Eaters were gone.
No blood spilled. No warriors dead.
The Ikanbi cleared the land. Burned the huts. Marked the borders. This place was now the beginning of something greater—the first step in drawing the new Ikanbi lines.
Shadow Blades remained, scouting for signs of betrayal. None came.
Later, by the river, Ben stood alone.
Twa Milhoms appeared beside him, silent as usual.
"You did not kill," the god said.
"No," Ben replied. "But I made sure they knew what would happen if they stayed."
"Mercy?"
"No. Efficiency."
Twa Milhoms nodded slowly.
"Then Ikanbi grows with discipline."
That night, warriors returned to their camps.
The people watched them—not with fear, but understanding.
A tribe that offers a choice but is prepared to destroy, that was Ikanbi.
And the world was beginning to notice.
Word traveled fast—too fast.
The Bark-Eaters had moved without bloodshed, but the message was louder than war drums:
Ikanbi did not tolerate proximity.
In the highlands beyond the river valleys, beneath a roof of woven roots and dried skins, the confederation tribes gathered. Six tribes—each with strength, history, and scars—sat in a half-circle of distrust and reluctant unity.
These were not weaklings. Each had survived winters, beasts, and blood. But none had seen what Ikanbi now represented—a tribe with iron weapons, a separate warrior force, discipline, and no hesitation to expand.
The meeting was short.
"They grow too fast," said a one-eyed chief with a necklace of preserved tongues.
"They cut no deals. They gave the Bark-Eaters a choice, and now that land belongs to them," another spat.
"We must speak with them," a younger voice offered. "Understand them."
No one agreed, but no one had a better plan.
Three days later, a delegation stood at the edge of Ikanbi territory.
They were met not by civilians or hunters—but by warriors. The militia ring formed without command. Iron weapons glinted in the sun. Their leader was not in front.
He was waiting.
Ben stepped forward, flanked by Kael and Mala. Jaron and Enru stood a distance behind, not as backup—but as witnesses.
The confederation leaders looked unsettled. These weren't the same wild tribes they had known. These warriors didn't flinch. Their weapons were heavier. Their bodies scarred and silent.
One of the tribal envoys finally spoke.
"We don't wish for war."
Ben didn't nod. He didn't blink.
"Then don't bring it here."
A silence followed. One of the envoys stepped forward.
"We came to speak of territory, to understand the borders of—"
Ben raised a hand.
"Ikanbi doesn't share territory. You are too close."
He pointed to the jungle.
"You have two choices: move away and live. Or stay, and be removed—by fire, by blade, by storm. There will be no war. Just your end."
One of the older envoys clenched his jaw.
"You threaten all of us?"
"No," Ben said. "I offer you a way to avoid death. That's not a threat. That's a gift."
The tribal leaders looked at one another.
And one by one—they stepped back.
That night
Ben stood by the fire, watching the sky churn with embers. Twa Milhoms appeared beside him, arms crossed.
"They will not forget this," the god murmured.
"Good," Ben said. "Then they will remember who to avoid."
The god of Ikanbi grinned faintly.
"You do not rule with kindness."
"I rule with clarity," Ben answered. "And in this world… clarity is mercy."
The fire in Ben's forge had gone cold, but his thoughts burned hotter than ever.
He stood at the edge of the jungle wall, where the trees bowed low and the wind carried whispers from beyond. Twa Milhoms stood beside him, silent and unmoving like a boulder, until finally, the god spoke—not with thunder, not with smoke, but with a cold truth carved straight into Ben's chest.
"Kindness to one enemy," the god said, "is cruelty to oneself."
Ben didn't reply. His jaw clenched. His eyes followed the distant horizon, where the wind brought scent of ash and sweat—not from Ikanbi, but from camps being built too close.
He had offered peace. He had offered mercy.
And they spat on it.
Elsewhere, the Confederation gathered.
Five tribes, scattered across the old lands, now met in a clearing surrounded by bone totems and hides. The leaders were scarred, their warriors many. They had watched Ikanbi rise, watched its warriors train with discipline, its weapons gleam with strange materials, its people move like one body under one mind.
They did not understand it. They feared it.
And fear turned to hunger.
"We will strike before they grow any stronger," one of the elders barked.
"They separate warriors from people, they hide their power behind rules. But they bleed like us."
The vote was quick. No peace. No surrender. A united attack from all sides. Numbers would drown discipline.
The gods of the Confederation, wild and starved, watched through the trees, licking their lips.
Back in Ikanbi.
Shadow Blades moved like smoke, slipping through thickets and caves, listening to war drums and mapping enemy camps. When they returned, they reported everything to Ben with carved symbols on bark and stone.
Ben called for his commanders—Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru.
They met at the center of the village where the first fire pit was ever lit. No words of panic were spoken, only the facts. Their militia was outnumbered. But not outclassed.
Ben looked each one of them in the eye.
"I gave the world a choice. They chose to test us. They will learn what happens when you challenge Ikanbi."
Kael grinned. Mala cracked her knuckles. Jaron sharpened his new iron spear. Enru nodded once, already thinking in formations.
No one asked for mercy. None would be given.
Twa Milhoms reappeared behind Ben, splitting into two forms—one for each war front. There would be no more warnings.
Only war.