The Tribe of Outcasts

The jungle was alive with whispers. Leaves rustled without wind, and shadows slithered between the trees. The boy, weak and starving, clung to the large root of an ancient tree. His body ached, his mind drifted between wakefulness and unconsciousness. He had survived the cold, the hunger, and the beasts that lurked in the dark. But for how much longer?

Then, they came.

Figures moved silently through the undergrowth—watching, waiting. Their dark eyes glowed like amber under the dim light of dawn. Their clothes were woven from leaves, bark, and animal hide. They were the Volx, the tribe of the forsaken.

One of them, a towering man with deep scars across his arms, knelt beside the boy. His gaze was unreadable. The child had no strength to resist. He was lifted effortlessly, cradled in strong arms. The jungle swallowed their retreat, and silence returned.

The Village of the Volx

The scent of burning herbs filled the air. The boy awoke in a hut, covered in animal furs. His wounds were treated, his body felt lighter, but his mind was still clouded. Where was he?

A woman sat beside him, grinding herbs in a wooden bowl. Her dark hair was braided with red beads, and her eyes held a strange warmth.

"You are awake," she said.

The boy flinched but did not speak.

"You were left to die," she continued, crushing the herbs into a paste. "But death did not want you."

The boy's lips trembled. His memories were fractured—his mother's embrace, the storm of magic, the coldness in his family's eyes.

"What is your name?" the woman asked.

He did not answer.

She sighed and placed the bowl aside. "No name, then. That is fine. The Volx do not ask questions of the past. We only look forward."

The flap of the hut swung open, and the scarred man entered. His presence filled the space like a storm cloud.

"Is he strong enough to move?"

"Not yet," the woman said firmly.

The man studied the boy, his gaze sharp. "Then he stays. But weakness is not tolerated in the Volx. If he cannot stand on his own within three days, he is no better than the dead."

He turned and left.

The boy clenched his fists. He did not want to die. Not here. Not like this.

The woman smiled faintly. "Then you must stand."

And so, the test began.

The Trial of the Weak

The Volx did not offer comfort. They believed in survival, in strength forged through hardship. The boy was given no name, no guidance—only the challenge to rise.

On the first day, he tried to sit up. Pain lanced through his ribs, and his vision blurred. He collapsed back onto the furs, his breathing ragged.

The woman returned at sunset, bringing a bowl of broth. "You must eat," she said.

He turned away.

She sighed, setting the bowl beside him. "If you want to live, you must fight for it."

On the second day, he forced himself to crawl to the edge of the hut. His muscles screamed in protest, but he gritted his teeth. The village was alive with movement—hunters sharpening spears, children racing through the dirt paths, women weaving mats. The Volx did not look at him. He was not one of them. Not yet.

The scarred man stood in the center of the village, watching.

On the third day, the boy stood. His legs shook, and he nearly fell, but he stayed upright. The woman watched from the corner of the hut, her expression unreadable.

The scarred man approached. He circled the boy like a predator sizing up its prey. Then, he nodded.

"You live."

The boy collapsed to his knees, his body trembling.

"But survival is not enough," the man continued. "The Volx do not take in the weak. If you wish to stay, you must prove you have worth."

The boy looked up, his vision swimming. He had nowhere else to go.

"Then I will prove it," he whispered.

The scarred man smiled—a grim, knowing expression. "Good. Your trial begins at dawn."

The Trial of Strength

The sun had barely risen when the boy was led to the village square. A crowd gathered—hunters, elders, even children. They whispered among themselves, curious about the stranger who had survived the jungle.

The scarred man stepped forward. "To be Volx is to be strong," he declared. "You will face three trials. Fail, and you leave. Succeed, and you earn your place."

The first trial was endurance.

The boy was led to a clearing, where a massive stone lay in the center. "Carry it," the scarred man commanded.

The boy's heart pounded. He was still weak, his body still healing, but he did not hesitate. He bent down, gripping the rough surface. His arms trembled as he lifted, the weight pressing against his chest.

He took a step. Then another. His legs buckled, but he gritted his teeth. Sweat dripped down his face.

He did not stop.

Minutes passed. The village watched in silence.

When he finally collapsed, gasping for breath, the scarred man nodded. "Enough."

The second trial was the hunt.

The boy was given a knife and sent into the jungle. He had until sunset to bring back food.

The jungle was alive with movement—birds cawing, leaves rustling. He moved cautiously, his senses alert. He had never hunted before, but he had watched his mother prepare meals. He knew how to recognize tracks, how to listen for movement.

Hours passed. Then, he heard it—a rustle in the bushes.

A wild hare.

He crouched low, his fingers tightening around the knife. He moved silently, inching closer. Then, he lunged.

The hare darted away, but he was faster. His knife struck true.

When he returned to the village, the scarred man took the kill and inspected it. He said nothing, but a small flicker of approval crossed his face.

The final trial was combat.

The boy was brought to the center of the village. Another boy, older and stronger, stepped forward.

"Win," the scarred man said.

The older boy wasted no time. He charged, knocking the boy to the ground. Pain exploded in his ribs, but he rolled away, scrambling to his feet.

The older boy swung again, but this time, the boy ducked. He moved instinctively, dodging, countering. He was smaller, weaker—but he was faster.

He lunged, driving his fist into the older boy's stomach. The other boy staggered.

The crowd murmured.

The boy did not hesitate. He tackled his opponent, pinning him down. His fists struck again and again until the older boy lay still.

Silence.

Then, the scarred man stepped forward. He looked down at the boy, his expression unreadable.

Finally, he spoke.

"You have earned your place."

The village erupted in cheers. The boy, exhausted and bleeding, barely heard them.

But deep inside, something stirred.

For the first time, he was not just a nameless child.

For the first time, he belonged.

And for the first time, he had a future!