test of survival

The morning sun barely pierced the thick canopy as the tribe stirred to life. Mist hung low over the river, curling around the baskets and traps Boji had set the day before. His hands moved deftly, checking nets and tightening knots, his face calm but focused.

Laye watched, eager to learn, as Boji showed him how to clean the fresh catch, fingers nimble despite the chill. Nearby, Sema directed Mala and Joren in building a raised rack, the first step to preserving meat beyond the day's hunt. The scent of smoked roots and drying fish drifted faintly on the breeze, a promise of stability in their wild world.

Ben moved quietly among them, inspecting the work with a measured eye. No longer merely a survivor, he was a leader now, and every detail mattered.

Farther out, Kael and Joren returned from the forest, bodies scratched and stained with blood. Between them hung the carcass of a beast unlike any seen before—six legs tipped with sharp claws, a hide thick and mottled with scars, spiraled horns jutting menacingly from its broad head.

A hush fell over the camp as the two dropped their burden. Joren's arm bore a deep bite mark, crimson oozing slowly, and his jaw clenched against the pain.

Ben met their gaze, steady. "Well done. But you rest now. No more hunts until you're healed."

Joren grunted but nodded, the fierce edge of his skepticism softened by the shared danger.

Sema knelt beside the carcass, already considering how to smoke and cure the meat. Later, beside the fire, she shared a rare quiet moment with Ben.

"I feel useful again," she admitted, stirring the thick stew. "Like I'm more than just surviving."

Ben looked at her, eyes heavy. "I dream of building something that lasts—something more than this."

She smiled softly. "Maybe that's why you lead."

Across the camp, Mala climbed her usual perch, eyes scanning the thick treeline with the practiced vigilance of a born watcher. The forest stretched endlessly, vibrant and deadly. But then, a flicker—a shape moving just beyond the boundary they had claimed.

At first, she thought it a shadow, then figures: a small group, ragged and weary, searching for shelter. They had not crossed the line marked by Twa Milhom's protection, but they hovered at its edge, cautious and desperate.

Mala's breath caught. She sent a silent signal, and soon Ben stood beside her, the weight of his gaze settling on the distant figures.

"They're outside," Mala said softly. "Searching."

Ben's jaw tightened. The god had been clear: this land was theirs to protect, but his protection was for Ben's tribe alone.

Night fell like a curtain as the camp gathered, the firelight flickering against faces drawn tight with unspoken questions. Ben stepped outside, sharpening his blade, eyes fixed on the shadowed forest beyond.

The whispers of the wind carried a challenge—an unseen voice questioning the line he had drawn.

"You drew the line. Will you erase it?"

Ben did not answer.

Beyond the trees, the strangers huddled close to their own flickering flame, unaware that their presence had already been seen.

And that the true test of survival was only just beginning.

The group of survivors followed Ben in tense silence, crossing into the edge of Ikanbi. They were thin, sun-darkened, and cautious. Eyes darted to the towering bamboo, to the smoke rising from campfires, and finally—to Twa Milhom, who stood beneath the grove, arms folded, watching.

Ben had made no promises beyond safety. No handshakes. No ceremonies. Only truth.

"You may stay," he told them. "If you follow our order, respect the land, and don't anger the god who watches over it."

Most nodded quickly, grateful, their expressions sagging with relief. But one man—tall, bare-chested, scars lining his arms like trophies—laughed as he stepped forward.

"You mean him?" He jabbed a finger toward Twa Milhom, who hadn't moved. "That thing standing there watching like he's royalty? He bleeds, just like any man."

The others backed away instinctively, sensing something shift.

Twa Milhom grinned.

Ben opened his mouth to speak, but a voice thundered through his mind—not through his ears, not from the world.

"He bleeds, yes. But only after everything else does."

Ben staggered for half a second, vision narrowing. His spine locked straight, eyes glazing with a fire none of them had ever seen.

The man kept talking, boasting, puffing his chest—completely unaware.

Then Ben stepped forward, his voice ringing out like a drawn blade.

"Anyone who wants to live, stand behind me."

The man blinked. "What?"

"You have three breaths," Ben said coldly. "To choose life. Or see what happens when the god you mocked answers."

Everyone froze.

One breath.

The branded stepped behind Ben without hesitation.

Two breaths.

The survivors scrambled, pushing behind him in wide-eyed silence.

Three—

The man still stood alone.

Behind Ben, the air rippled. Not with heat, but with presence. Twa Milhom began to walk forward. Slow. Casual. Enjoying the moment.

Ben never turned. His voice was flat.

"He gave you a chance to be part of something. You spat on it. Now watch what happens to arrogance."

The man's mouth opened again, but his voice was lost beneath the weight of footsteps—the sound of judgment walking the earth.

And the wild, beautiful, deadly jungle of Ikanbi went quiet. Even the wind held its breath.

The jungle held its breath.

Twa Milhom stepped forward, each movement impossibly calm, yet heavy with judgment. As he approached the defiant man, the air began to shift—not just around him, but within the very space he occupied.

A shimmer rippled outward from the god's body.

The temperature climbed unnaturally fast.

The moisture in the air hissed and sizzled.

The survivors stumbled back, eyes wide, mouths dry.

The man opened his mouth to shout again—but nothing came. His breath caught. His body locked.

A second later, his skin flushed red, sweat erupted—and immediately began to steam. His eyes bulged in confusion. Horror.

The air around him solidified, thick like glass, trapping him inside an invisible prison. Then came the heat.

Not flame. No fire. But a rising, internal boil that began in his blood.

His veins darkened. His lips cracked.

He let out a noise—half scream, half choke—as every drop of fluid inside him began to boil. The heat was not on him. It was inside him. Cooking him. From blood to bile to brain.

He collapsed, body shuddering, mouth open in a final, silent cry—steam rising from his nostrils like the earth itself was exhaling through him.

He died without ever being touched.

Twa Milhom stood over the husk of him, neither triumphant nor wrathful. Just… finished.

Then he turned his back to the stunned crowd, walking calmly toward the strange grove of bamboo-twisted trees that had grown overnight like a living wall around his home.

He paused at the edge and spoke without turning.

"Only one of you may speak to me without reverence. Only one."

His eyes met Ben's—sharp, unreadable.

"The rest will remember their place, or be shown it."

And with that, he vanished into the grove, the trees parting to swallow him in silence.

Ben didn't speak.

He didn't need to.

Because now, no one questioned the god—or the man he walked beside.