he jungle had gone still.
Four great paths had been carved from Ikanbi to the edges of the known world, and upon each path marched the warriors of a god—disciplined, branded, forged in death and madness. They bore no flags. They sang no songs. They needed no chants to rattle the sky.
Each unit arrived at their staging point in silence.
Stone Fang, led by Kael, stood before a narrow valley lined with jagged stones. A single pass led into the territory beyond. Kael's warriors lined the rocks with precision. They sharpened their iron blades in rhythm, each grind a thunderous warning across the stone teeth of the pass.
Ash Wind, under Mala, moved like smoke through thick woods. She stationed her warriors along trees and brambles, camouflaged in shadow and silence. The damp forest floor absorbed their movement. No sound betrayed them—only the heavy, coiled tension of warriors awaiting the signal to strike.
Blood Root, commanded by Jaron, settled along the wide, shallow riverbank. His warriors crouched beneath branches and behind river boulders. The water mirrored their stillness. Fish stopped swimming. Insects refused to buzz. A predator's hush blanketed the marsh.
Iron Sky, under the ever-watchful Enru, claimed the high ridges overlooking a broken field. From there, his warriors would descend like stones in a landslide. Quiet. Unstoppable. Fatal.
They were ready.
From each militia force, a single Shadow Blade emerged—hooded, faceless, moving with that otherworldly slowness that made the air tighten around them.
Each Shadow Blade stepped into the clearing before the enemy encampments and spoke the same words in the same voice:
"This is your final warning. Move. Or be moved. There will be no second breath."
And with those words, they vanished again.
The enemies—tribes and clans who had long feasted on the weak—laughed, jeered, and shouted insults. They could not see the storm waiting in the trees. Their gods whispered promises of power in their ears, blind to the reckoning that approached.
Back in the ranks, Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru stood before their warriors.
Kael's voice was steady, his presence heavy with years of battle. "Fifty. That's the number. If you don't kill at least fifty enemy warriors, you will return to the chamber."
Mala smiled, slow and cruel. "You remember the killing intent, don't you? The battlefield that bled into your dreams? Return there if you fail me."
Jaron's voice was colder. "Don't beg for mercy. Not from me. Not from the god. You know what waits for the weak."
Enru simply nodded once. "The only way forward… is through."
The warriors said nothing.
Then it began.
The earth trembled.
Not from marching feet—but from killing intent.
It did not come in roars or wild cries. It was quiet. Dense. Suffocating.
As if the world itself recoiled from what it felt awakening in the bones of these warriors.
Birds fell from trees.
Beasts in the forest turned and ran without looking back.
The enemy forces, scattered across the four frontlines, paused. Some clutched their chests. Others dropped their spears. One tribal chief screamed as the shadows around his warriors deepened—shifting, crawling, whispering death.
They hadn't seen it before.
They didn't understand it.
But their bodies did.
Something in their blood remembered.
Something ancient.
Something divine.
Among the Ikanbi warriors, there was no mercy. Only a single thought pulsed behind every eye:
"I will not return to that chamber."
And with that, they moved.
The first kill came from a five-ringed warrior under Enru. He burst from the ridge like a falling boulder, blade slicing clean through the skull of an enemy scout. Not a word was spoken. Not a pause taken.
Then fifty more fell. Then a hundred.
From the jungle, from the stone, from the river and the sky—they came.
No banners.
No prisoners.
No mercy.
Just death.
And death marched with them.
The enemy had heard the warning—but they hadn't understood it.
Kill fifty, or return to the chamber.
Those words had sunk deep into the bones of every Ikanbian warrior. The threat of failure didn't mean shame. It meant death—not on the battlefield, but in that endless place of madness Twa Milhoms called training. No one wanted to go back.
So when the order was given… they didn't hesitate.
Their killing intent surged like a wave of pressure rolling across the land. It wasn't sound. It wasn't light. It was weight—a spiritual gravity so thick the air itself buckled.
Birds didn't flee; they dropped.
Beasts didn't run; they collapsed and hid.
The enemy warriors gripped their weapons tighter, but their muscles refused to move. Their instincts screamed, Don't fight this… run. Some pissed themselves before the first blade even swung.
Then the slaughter began.
Stone Fang – Kael's Vanguard
The rocks above the pass shattered underfoot as Ikanbian warriors poured down like an avalanche. Their iron blades glinted dull and red, already stained from the first kills. Kael led them in silence, his eyes fixed forward. Each slash came with brutal purpose—no waste, no flair.
One enemy chieftain raised his club to command—
A blade split his skull before the order left his mouth.
The Ikanbians struck as if they had no fear of death—because they feared something worse: returning to that chamber. So they cut. Again and again. Fifty was the minimum. Most were already past that in minutes.
Ash Wind – Mala's Ambush
The forest shadows birthed death.
The enemy knew they were being watched—but the weight of the killing intent made them slow. When Mala's warriors moved, it was like night itself turning hostile. Arrows flew through gaps in the trees, silent and perfect. Warriors dropped before they could scream. Swords found throats. Knives opened arteries.
"Form up!" a captain bellowed.
But his men were already on the ground, cut from behind before they could react.
The enemy's courage faltered under Mala's cold efficiency.
They didn't know where death would come from.
Only that it would.
Blood Root – Jaron's Assault
The river rippled once—and then warriors exploded from its banks.
The enemy reeled, trying to understand how their scouts failed to report this ambush.
Jaron's men came in low, fast, savage. One enemy raised a shield; an axe tore through it and the arm behind it. Spears punched through ribs. Heads rolled into the shallows.
"Retreat!" someone screamed.
But retreat was not a command—it was a prayer.
And Twa Milhoms did not answer prayers.
Iron Sky – Enru's Descent
The ridgeline cracked.
And Iron Sky fell.
Not marched. Fell.
Enru's warriors descended with such force that bones shattered from impact alone. They landed inside the enemy's rear flank, where leaders and archers had clustered—assuming they were safe.
They weren't.
One by one, the enemy commanders died without ever seeing their killers' faces.
Enemy POV – Chief Uzmal of the Fire-Eyed People
He stood watching the treeline where the Ikanbian warriors had been seen.
Then he felt it—the killing intent.
It pressed on his chest like a mountain. His own warriors started trembling. One dropped to his knees. Another began whispering prayers.
"Stand! You cowards—"
But the words caught in his throat.
Because now he could see it—movement, just barely. Figures stepping out of shadow with weapons already red.
A heartbeat later, his front line was gone. Not broken—gone.
His lieutenants tried to shout orders, but the Ikanbians moved too fast. They had already closed the distance. Already began the kill.
Uzmal reached for his god-stone—but his hand never made it.
A blade pierced him from behind.
There were no survivors from the front lines.
Those who escaped the initial assault were hunted down one by one. The Ikanbians showed no emotion, no mercy. Just relentless violence fueled by the fear of returning to the chamber.
They fought as if the god of death was watching—and none wanted to disappoint him.
And so, the killing continued.
The forest drank deep.
And Ikanbi marched on.