The battlefield was silent now, but the fires of Ikanbi burned hotter than ever—not for war, but for growth.
Ben stood at the edge of the main camp, watching warriors unload goods: clay pots, fiber-woven cloth, dried meat, salt stones, and bundles of sharpened tools. Not far beyond, closer to the militia bases, an open stretch of cleared land had been claimed—this would be the outer camp, the ground where trade would live.
But Ikanbi would not trade like the old world.
⸻
Ben had summoned the blacksmiths, potters, fiber-weavers, and hunters.
"This is no longer a land of barter," he told them. "You will not trade meat for cloth, or salt for pottery. Not anymore. You will sell your work to the tribe. The tribe will resell it to those in need."
He had spoken with Twa Milhoms beneath the mountain tree, and the god gave him a concept forgotten to this savage world: currency.
"Give value a form," the god said. "Shape it from fire and stone. Let your people learn to work, earn, and spend. It is not kindness—it is evolution."
From Ben's forge came the first currency of Ikanbi:
Ash Mark (1) – small, gray iron chips with a burned hole.
Stone Mark (5) – flat, dark coins shaped like pebbles.
Fang Mark (10) – curved and jagged, resembling a predator's tooth.
Sun Mark (50) – round, etched in spirals and smoke-scorched.
God Mark (100) – thick, crude, and heavy. Each one handmade, and rare.
The tribe received this new system with confusion, then murmurs of curiosity.
But one thing was made clear from the start:
"Metal weapons are not for sale."
They were sacred. Each blade was earned, not bought.
No matter how many God Marks one possessed, the iron sword would never be theirs unless the tribe forged it for them—by merit, not coin.
⸻
The system worked like this:
Goods were sold to the tribe at the main camp, weighed and recorded.
Then they were transported to the outer camp, where warriors and civilians could buy them with God Marks.
Even clay bowls now had a price.
So did salt, fiber, herbal mixtures, and roasted roots.
Some frowned. Some questioned.
"Why should I sell if I can trade?"
"What if I need meat now, but only have woven cloth?"
Ben answered them in a simple tone:
"Because trade by mouth favors the loud and cheats the silent. But this… this favors the doers. If you work, you earn. If you earn, you eat. No begging. No favors. Only value."
Twa Milhoms stood beside him, listening.
And the tribe obeyed.
⸻
Mia sold her first cloth wrap to the tribe. In return, she received two Stone Marks, the rough iron cool in her palm. She looked at them with awe—primitive, brutal, but real.
Sema traded five clay bowls and six spoons for a mix of Ash and Fang Marks, which she stored in a tightly woven pouch.
Even the children began gathering herbs and firewood, not just for chores—but to earn.
The whisper of metal coins clinking became a sound of purpose.
⸻
That night, in the forge, Ben laid out three God Marks and a half-finished blade. Twa Milhoms leaned against the stone wall, arms folded.
"No tribe has done this," the god said. "Not even those who ruled before the rot."
"They were too busy eating each other," Ben replied, pressing iron to fire.
"And you? Will this… money make you different?"
Ben shook his head. "It's not about coins. It's about order. The kind of order that survives long after I'm dead."
The forge hissed. Sparks flew.
And so did the first breath of a new world.
One where even in a land of beasts, Ikanbi stood apart—not just by its blades, but by the God Marks clutched in the fists of its people.
The winds no longer whispered—they watched.
They carried the scent of bone smoke, cracked iron, fermented roots, and the skin-oil of too many bodies packed into Ikanbi's center. But they also carried something new. Something dangerous.
An idea.
Not a god. Not a war. But a system.
And in Ayesha, systems died screaming if they could not survive fire and hunger.
⸻
The Market of Stone and Blood
At the edge of Ikanbi, near the militia camps where iron was birthed and warriors sharpened their wrath, a circle had been cleared. Trees were stripped down to roots, their bark burned into charcoal. Stones were stacked into walls. Dirt packed hard as bone. A clearing made not for ritual, but for exchange.
It was the first of its kind—a marketplace in a land where taking was law, and barter was done with blade or threat.
Ben stood at its center. His bare chest still smudged with forge ash, fingers stained from shaping the crude coins now carried in pouches across the camp.
Around him, warriors leaned on spears. Workers crouched behind bundles of salt bricks, clay bowls, bark-thread tunics, and bundles of smoked meat. Yet none spoke.
They did not know how to sell without boasting.
They did not know how to buy without threatening.
Ben saw it. Felt it.
Ikanbi was strong. But new things did not grow in silence. They had to be burned into the world.
⸻
Resistance Like Splintered Bone
"They want me to give the tribe my fish… only to buy it back?" one hunter spat, gripping a gutting blade.
A mother held up a pouch. "What is this God Mark supposed to mean to my child when he's hungry?"
Another scoffed. "No tribe has ever sold meat. Meat is owed. Or earned in a fight."
There were no riots. No protests. But tension cracked through the tribe like dry wood under foot.
They obeyed because of Ben.
But they did not understand.
Ben gathered the elders and ringless at the hearth pit. A heavy God Mark clinked in his hand—metal burned through with a hole, crude and blackened. A shape made to last.
"You make something," he said. "And you're paid."
"You want something? You trade your coin for it. Not your threat. Not your life. Your value."
His voice didn't rise. It didn't need to.
They knew he didn't need their agreement. He could take it.
But he didn't.
⸻
The Shadow Blades Move
That night, twenty five Shadow Blades left the camp like ghosts with ribs. They didn't gallop. They walked. Slow. Unchallenged. Faces hidden by dirt and ash.
One for each direction.
To the nearest tribes, they delivered only these words, whispered in cracked tongues:
"A new fire burns in Ikanbi.
It feeds not on flesh but on trade.
Come. Bring goods. Leave weapons.
There will be no fighting within our borders.
Or there will be no return."
No tribe had ever been invited anywhere before.
In Ayesha, if another tribe noticed you, they came to kill or take.
But Ikanbi?
Ikanbi was doing something else.
And that made it scarier.
⸻
Ben's Decree
At the market's center, Ben spoke to Kael, Mala, Enru, and Jaron—his war-born commanders. Warriors who had killed more men than they could count. Warriors who now helped protect… trade?
"No blood within the market walls," Ben said. "I don't care if their grandfather killed your grandfather. You spill here? You don't return."
Kael grunted. "They'll test it."
"Then bury them under the fire pits," Mala said coldly.
Enru only nodded, already marking his patrol rotations in the dirt.
Jaron stared into the flames. "So this is what peace tastes like."
"No," Ben said. "This is what order tastes like."
⸻
God Marks and Skepticism
The God Marks—metal coins, ugly and heavy—were stored in clay bowls near the forge. Five types now existed:
Ash Mark (1)
Stone Mark (5)
Fang Mark (10)
Sun Mark (50)
God Mark (100)
Made of the same metal as Ikanbi's weapons, each bore the crude burn-hole of Twa Milhoms—a symbol none dared forge.
Still, people struggled.
Some tried to trade the old way. They were denied.
Others began hoarding. Preparing. Adjusting.
Twa Milhoms watched from a distance, seated on stone, invisible to all but Ben.
"This is not peace," he said. "This is a slower kind of war."
Ben nodded. "Then I'll teach them how to fight it."
⸻
Beyond the Borders
The message spread like blood in water.
A market.
With rules.
With coin.
With security guaranteed by warriors who had burned six tribes to ash.
The nearby tribes didn't understand it.
But they were hungry.
And in Ayesha, hunger walks faster than hatred.