The drums of war did not come from Kan Ogou.
They came from the jungle—slow, guttural, and wrong. A sound too old, too hollow, like something born in the marrow of extinct beasts. Every heartbeat in the village responded instinctively, tightening like a pulled bowstring. The forge hissed in silence. Even the youngest children ceased their play, feeling something older than fear.
Zaruko stood on the ridge above the valley kill zone. His face, streaked with ash and ochre, betrayed no emotion. But inside, his pulse hammered.
They were coming.
He turned to Maela and the young warrior Tomba, who stood beside him, eyes flickering toward the trees.
"They'll hit the lower flank first," Zaruko murmured. "Signal when they cross the third pit."
Tomba nodded. "What if they see through it?"
Zaruko's jaw clenched. "Then we kill them anyway."
Below, dozens of Kan Ogou warriors crouched in thornbrush, behind ridges, or just beneath camouflaged trenches. Smoke trails from the forge curled upward behind them, rising like a prayer toward the burning clouds.
Then came the smell.
Not just sweat and iron — but rotting flowers, pungent sap, and charred bone.
Figures emerged from the tree line — dozens of them, painted in tar, bone, and red clay. Their weapons were gnarled, jagged things. Spears of splintered bark fused with fang. Shields made from what looked like stitched skin.
And at their center walked a creature the jungle itself seemed to recoil from.
The Thorn God.
He stood twice the height of a man, limbs long and bark-twisted, his torso armored in what looked like fused ribs and roots. His face was hidden behind a mask of cracked ivory. But beneath it, something moved — not lips, not a tongue — just movement, as though his mouth was too ancient for speaking.
He raised a gnarled staff into the air.
The enemy surged forward.
Zaruko's hand shot up.
"Now."
The jungle erupted.
Pits collapsed, sending enemies into spear-lined traps. Nets made from woven sinew launched upwards, tangling limbs and dragging warriors screaming into the trees. Fire gushed from concealed trenches, fed by hidden oil. Chaos. Confusion. Screams of confusion as feral chants broke rhythm.
Then Kan Ogou struck.
Zaruko was first off the ridge, vaulting with brutal speed, obsidian blade in hand. He hit the first enemy square in the chest, crushing bone. Behind him, Maela and Tomba led the charge.
The fighting was savage — not the dance of trained soldiers but the brawl of survival. Screams tore through the underbrush. Obsidian bit flesh, wooden clubs shattered skulls. The enemy fought like beasts, but Kan Ogou fought like people with a future.
Only two fell.
Old Rano, too slow to evade a thrown spear. And young Kelu, who had rushed to pull a wounded warrior to safety and was caught by a spiked cudgel. Their deaths were felt like thunder, but no one had time to mourn.
Zaruko fought like fire. His movements were sharp, efficient — the result of years of training sharpened by desperation. But then the Thorn God entered the fray.
With a sweep of his arm, he sent half a dozen warriors flying. Vines slithered from his limbs, grabbing weapons and snapping them. He did not roar. He did not snarl. He simply walked forward, and every step bent the earth to his will.
Zaruko stood in his path.
"You've walked far," he said, panting, blood streaking his brow. "But this ends here."
The Thorn God tilted his head.
"You burn with a fire not of this world," it rasped. "That flame will be snuffed."
Zaruko raised his blade. "Only if you bleed fast enough to drown it."
They collided.
The clash shook the trees. Thorn against steel. God against man. Zaruko struck again and again — parried, ducked, rolled. Each blow from the Thorn God sent shockwaves through the soil, cracking stone and charring nearby leaves.
Zaruko was quick, precise — but mortal. The Thorn God's strength was crushing. A whip of vine struck Zaruko in the ribs, sending him sprawling. Blood bubbled in his mouth.
The god raised its staff — ready to end him.
Then came the sound.
Metal striking metal.
Not a clang — a forging.
From the sky, thunder cracked — not once, but continuously, like hammers against an anvil.
Lightning arced — not down from the sky but across it. Clouds rolled, thick and iron-colored, flashing red as if lit by magma.
The Thorn God hesitated.
Zaruko opened his eyes.
From the fire, from the forge, from the very air — he came.
Ogou.
Not a spirit. Not a dream. A man.
Tall, broad, skin like smoldering iron. Muscles as if carved by fire itself. He wore no armor, only a half-molten breastplate that shimmered with heat. In his hand was a hammer, blackened and smoking, as if it had just been pulled from the sun.
He stepped into the battlefield like it was his forge.
The Thorn God retreated a step. Just one. But enough.
Ogou looked to Zaruko, nodded — not with authority, but with something warmer. Ancestral. Familiar.
Then he turned his gaze on the Thorn God.
"You've mistaken rot for root," Ogou said calmly. "And now you'll learn the difference."
The Thorn God lunged.
Ogou didn't move.
He raised the hammer — and brought it down once.
The sound wasn't thunder — it was judgment.
The ground exploded.
Trees were flattened. The battlefield split, the Thorn God hurled back. Kan Ogou warriors froze — not in fear, but awe.
Ogou stood amidst the smoke, unshaken.
He looked back to the tribe.
"This war is only beginning," he said. "But today… you have won your flame."
The smoke began to clear. Ash drifted like snow over the battlefield, coating blood, shattered spears, and torn earth. Warriors of Kan Ogou stood, heaving breaths, bruised and bloodied—but alive. Their eyes, every one of them, were fixed not on the retreating enemy… but on Ogou.
He turned, slow and deliberate, facing them.
"I am not your king," he said, voice like an anvil's ring. "I am not your savior."
He raised the hammer, its surface still glowing with the heat of divine force.
"I am your forge. And you… are the flame that will shape this world."
A roar rose—not just a cheer, but something primal. A scream of recognition. Of purpose. Of unity.
Maela stumbled forward beside Zaruko, eyes wide. "He… he came."
Zaruko, still kneeling, pressed one fist to the earth. "No. He answered."
Behind them, the villagers slowly emerged from hiding—elders, children, even the wounded. They gathered not in worship, but in reverence.
Ogou turned and walked back toward the forge without another word.
And for the first time since arriving in this world, Zaruko felt the truth settle in his bones.
They were no longer just survivors.
They were becoming something greater.