The border ground was not chosen for beauty.
It was flat, hard, dry—where the tree line thinned and the soil cracked beneath the sun's gaze. It was here, beyond the reach of Ikanbi's inner heart, that Ben ordered the space cleared.
The warriors of Ikanbi did not question why.
They carved out a circle using sharpened iron blades and smooth stone tools.
Heavy stones were rolled and arranged into a crude ring of seats. Clay jars were filled with clean water. A central fire pit was laid with dried reeds and kindling, unlit.
No weapons were allowed in the meeting circle.
No guards were visible.
But the Shadow Blades were everywhere.
Ben stood alone in the circle.
The four militia commanders—Kael, Mala, Jaron, and Enru—were stationed along the forest edge, out of sight. Watching. Waiting.
He did not wear ceremonial clothes.
Just the woven tunic Mia had crafted and the scarred iron blade at his back—unarmed, but never harmless.
He waited.
They came.
First was the hill tribe.
Sharp-boned warriors with leather cords wrapped around their arms and dried blood still staining their knuckles. Their chieftain walked with a limp, but his eyes were proud.
He entered the circle as if daring the ground to reject him.
Then the wetland tribe.
Their elder matriarch arrived with quiet dignity, a woven basket of river blossoms on her hip. Her escort bore no weapons, only staffs carved from swamp wood. They smelled of salt and medicinal oils.
Lastly, the quiet tribe—and they came like smoke.
No one saw them arrive. They were simply there.
Four lean figures, cloaked in green bark and animal hide, moved to the edge of the circle without a sound. Their leader had eyes like cold ash and said nothing.
Ben bowed his head only once. "You came."
None of them responded with words.
He stepped into the center.
"This world does not know borders. It knows blood.
But Ikanbi seeks something else. We train apart from our children. We forge blades not to conquer, but to survive.
If you are here to test us, don't.
If you are here to listen, then hear this:
The jungle around Ikanbi is sacred to us.
No tribe will step inside our borders without invitation.
You may live near. You may trade. You may send messengers.
But if you draw weapons near our heart—we will not hold back."
The fire pit remained unlit. The wind was still.
The hill tribe chief scoffed.
"You claim land as if the world belongs to you. Who are you to say where we may walk?"
Ben did not raise his voice.
"We are the ones who will respond when you do."
A hush fell across the circle.
The wetland matriarch lowered her basket slowly and spoke.
"Your people bathe. They use bowls. They separate warriors from children.
We have never seen that before.
What do you truly want?"
Ben met her gaze.
"To last. To live long enough to grow old in peace.
But if that is not an option—we will choose the other thing."
The quiet tribe's leader never spoke.
He only watched Ben. Studying. Measuring.
Then the tension snapped.
One of the hill tribe's guards—a young, twitching man with a scar across his chest—reached for the bone knife at his hip.
He never touched it.
A Shadow Blade appeared behind him. No footsteps. No breath.
In one smooth movement, the knife was taken.
The man froze. His knees buckled. His pride shattered in a single moment of silence.
Ben did not blink.
"This is what happens when a tribe forgets it walks among wolves."
The fire pit remained unlit.
One by one, the tribes rose and left the circle.
The wetland matriarch gave a slight nod before vanishing into the trees.
The hill chief spat on the ground before he turned.
The quiet tribe melted away without a trace.
Ben remained alone until the last leaf settled.
Then Twa Milhoms appeared at the edge of the fire ring.
He didn't speak immediately.
The god simply stood with his arms folded, watching the trees sway.
Ben stared at the ground for a moment before whispering.
"One step closer."
Twa Milhoms didn't smile.
"Or one step closer to war."
Then the fire pit cracked—and lit on its own.
The border had been drawn.
The warning had been given.
Now, the waiting would begin.
Ben returned to Ikanbi the morning after the final border meeting.
His feet were sore, his shoulders heavy—not from wounds, but from the burden of restraint. Restraint was not a trait this world honored. But he carried it anyway.
The militia camps buzzed with activity. Warriors sharpened iron blades, rewrapped bindings, and restocked clay jars of water and dried meat. Yet the tension from the recent war lingered like smoke—thin, acrid, never far.
Ben passed each of the four camps, offering nods and few words. He didn't need to speak much. The warriors, despite fatigue, stood straighter when he walked by.
But his destination was not the training ground, nor the forge. It was the dense patch of untamed land between the eastern militia base and the last ridge before the deep jungle. A place untouched. Open. Remote.
He stood in the center of it.
"Here."
Sema joined him, clutching a clay scroll of hand-marked sketches. "Why here?"
"Too close to the main camp, and strangers feel our teeth. Too far, and they forget who owns the land. This… is close enough to remind them, far enough to feel neutral."
Behind him, Kael and Enru approached with two five-ring Outer Edge warriors.
"You want to build a… market?" Kael asked, confused but intrigued.
"Not a market," Ben said. "A space. For trade. For talk. For watchers."
Mia soon arrived, hair tied back, palms stained from fabric dye.
"You're turning Ikanbi into something new again."
Ben nodded once. "Something that lasts."
That day, under Ben's direction, work began.
The land was cleared with iron-bladed tools. Warriors and civilians alike dug trenches for drainage and laid stone slabs for foundation. Clay markers were planted—each marking future stalls, communal benches, and small huts for visiting traders to rest without entering Ikanbi's core.
The rules were laid clearly:
No weapons beyond the boundary post.
No entry to the inner tribe.
All trade watched by two Shadow Blades, rotated daily.
Any offense ends the privilege permanently.
The first building was not a stall—but a raised platform in the center with a fire pit beside it. A place where announcements would be made, agreements declared, and visitors heard… under the eyes of warriors who had walked through Twa Milhoms' training.
Sema began designing clay signs and jars for goods.
Mia started planning small cloth canopies to shield food and goods from the sun.
Boji, the old inventor, suggested iron hooks for meat racks and a filtered water jar from cooled stone.
By dusk, the clearing was unrecognizable.
It wasn't bustling yet. But it looked like something. Like possibility. Like future.
Ben stood in the middle again, wiping sweat from his forehead. The fires burned low around him, casting shadows across the newly placed stones.
Twa Milhoms appeared beside him, not with divine thunder but the quiet presence of something ancient and watching.
"You build so mortals can gather."
"I build so they have something to lose."
Twa Milhoms didn't answer right away. Then he chuckled, low and dry.
"Clever."
Ben nodded. "No one fears a tribe with nothing. But a tribe with land, trade, peace… That makes the world angry."
"Then be ready when they come."
"We are."
As the stars broke over the sky, the fire on the raised platform flared once and held steady.
Ikanbi was recovering.
And growing—again.