The storm had not broken.
It loomed above the mountain like a clenched fist, swollen with rain and silent thunder. The sky was bruised with grey and iron black, but it held back—as if the heavens themselves were waiting to see what would unfold below.
Zaruko stood at the high ridge, shoulders bare, eyes locked on the shadows gathering in the forest far beneath them. The torches of the enemy warband flickered like dying stars, their light swallowed slowly by fog rising from the earth.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. The people behind him—tired, bruised, and armed with barely more than carved wood and sharpened stone—stood still in the quiet, waiting.
Maela stepped beside him. Her hair was tied back with leather, her knuckles white around the shaft of her spear. She didn't look at him.
"I counted fifty," she said. "Maybe more. They don't move like scouts."
Zaruko nodded. "They're coming to crush us."
"And if they do?"
"Then we bleed first. And we burn last."
At dawn, the first horn blew.
Low and deep, the sound vibrated across the forest floor, up the rocks, into the bones of the waiting tribe. Children were moved to the caves. The elders were given flint and knives.
Zaruko crouched in the dirt, drawing lines with a charcoal-stained stone. Trap locations. Kill zones. Retreat paths.
He was no longer guessing.
The soldier in him had returned—not just the instinct to fight, but the discipline to win. The sigil on his arm had grown warmer through the night. Now it hummed with steady strength, as if sensing what was coming. As if wanting it.
He rose and walked the line, touching shoulders, nodding once to each fighter. They stood taller when he passed. They had never named him leader, but no one doubted who they would follow.
The enemy came at sunrise.
Painted bodies emerged from the trees—muscular, tall, faces marked with thick red streaks and bone necklaces. They carried iron blades and armor scavenged from the remnants of other tribes. These weren't wildmen. They were conquerors.
Zaruko waited until the front line reached the first set of spikes.
A scream. A snapped leg. A wave of confusion.
Then he raised his hand.
And dropped it.
The ridge came alive.
From above, the defenders loosed slings and crude arrows. Stones whistled through the air. Spears rained down from hidden grooves. Traps snapped. The earth gave way.
Zaruko was already moving—diving from the rocks, landing amid the enemy like a meteor. His spear cracked the skull of the first man who turned. The second didn't even scream before Zaruko's knife found his throat.
The sigil burned.
It licked up his forearm in brilliant orange, trailing sparks with every strike. His blood was fire now, his feet guided by something more than training. He weaved through chaos like a storm wearing a man's skin.
Around him, others fought too—but it was his presence, his fury, that broke the enemy's rhythm.
But even fire tires.
Zaruko stumbled. A blade sliced across his ribs. He grunted, twisting and kicking backward. The third wave was already coming, pouring up the ridge in greater numbers than expected.
Maela appeared beside him, her spear driving forward into a raider's gut.
"We need the high ledge," she shouted.
Zaruko nodded. "Fall back!"
The retreat was tight. Measured. Controlled. Not a rout—but a tactical pull to a higher, narrower path, where fewer could engage.
Still, the enemy pressed. They roared in foreign tongues, emboldened by numbers.
That's when the ground shook.
Zaruko froze. All around him, the world stilled.
The trees swayed—but without wind.
The very air seemed to bend.
And then he heard it.
A voice. Deep. Metallic. Neither kind nor cruel.
"Your blood speaks. Your fire calls. I cross."
Zaruko fell to his knees. The sigil was no longer glowing—it was blazing. His arm looked as if magma flowed through it, visible beneath the skin. His heartbeat vanished beneath the roar in his ears.
Then—
Lightning.
But not from the sky.
It erupted from him—a shockwave of fire and steel-blue light that cracked the earth, sent warriors flying, and seared a wide path into the enemy line.
The mountain roared.
And from behind Zaruko, in the smoke and ash, a figure stepped forward.
Seven feet tall. Bare chest covered in iron etchings. A red scarf flowing like liquid flame. In one hand, a broken blade of impossible weight. In the other, nothing but clenched rage.
Ogou Feray had crossed.
The raiders stopped, stunned, some falling to their knees.
Ogou said nothing. He looked at Zaruko, eyes like molten bronze, and nodded once.
Zaruko's strength returned—not slowly, but all at once. His limbs surged. His vision sharpened. The fire in his veins spread outward.
He wasn't just burning anymore.
He was becoming the flame itself.
The second wave shattered.
Ogou moved through the enemy like war incarnate. His blade didn't cut—it crushed. Each step sent shockwaves through the ground. Arrows turned to ash. Spears shattered on his body.
And beside him, Zaruko struck faster than ever before—his sigil flaring with every blow, his muscles responding not just with power, but purpose.
The enemy routed.
By midday, only blood and smoke remained.
The tribe stood in awe, too shocked to speak.
Ogou turned again to Zaruko. "You called. I answered. You carry your ancestors' mark. But now, you carry me."
Zaruko, bloodied and trembling, whispered, "Are you real?"
Ogou grinned, sharp and wolfish.
"I am war. I am iron. I am the promise of blades yet drawn. And now, I am yours."
The god faded then—into ash and smoke, back into the wound between worlds.
The wind returned.
And the mountain was silent again.
That night, Zaruko stood at the same cliff.
He didn't sleep. Couldn't.
His body still ached, though the worst of the wounds had closed.
The sigil was different now—more than light. Etched deeper, expanded, like new lines had emerged after the crossing. As if Ogou had signed his name.
Maela found him there, saying nothing.
He finally spoke.
"I don't know what I've done."
"You saved us."
"I didn't mean to call him. I didn't know I could."
Maela looked at the mark. "You're not from this world. That much is clear. But whatever power you carry, it listens to you. That means you're responsible for it."
Zaruko nodded.
There were no ancestors here who remembered Ogou. No spirits that knew his name. No myths passed down.
This world had never seen a god of war born in flame and blood.
Now it had.
And that meant things would never be the same.