The days after Ogou's descent were unlike any the tribe had known.
The storm that once cracked the heavens was gone, but its memory remained — etched into the hearts of the people, scorched into the soil, and burned into the walls of the new temple that should not have existed.
Zaruko stood at the edge of the rising settlement, watching as the tribe—now calling itself Kan Ogou—moved with greater purpose. Stone and timber were being shaped into homes with reinforced beams. Spears were sharpened, not just for survival, but for defense. Children whispered stories of the man who walked out of lightning and threw a hammer into the gods' jaw.
And deep within the mountain temple, Ogou remained silent.
Just as he'd warned.
No one dared disturb the forge. Offerings were left on a wide, flat stone before the open threshold — blood from hunts, twisted iron nails, even hand-carved totems. The people knelt, offered, and stepped away in silence.
And sometimes, those offerings disappeared.
Not always. But often enough.
It was enough to keep belief alive.
Zaruko stood before a small circle of warriors outside the temple gates — all men and women he had trained personally since Ogou's descent.
They wore armor made from hardened jungle hide and scraps of metal beaten into rough plates. Their eyes were alert. Their movements sharp. Some bore primitive war paint in the shape of a hammer. Others had tried to mimic Zaruko's sigil, painting it on their shoulders or chests, though none carried its divine fire.
He barked a command in the old language — the one he had begun to teach them, mixing the tongue of his ancestors with the rhythms of this new land.
They dropped into a stance. Spears lowered. Feet braced. Shields lifted.
"Hold," Zaruko growled.
Then he rushed them.
In a flurry of motion, he struck one shield with a palm, ducked a counterthrust, and spun into the flank of another warrior. The ring filled with grunts and the thudding of bodies. Zaruko moved with brutal precision — the ghost of Marine training etched into his every step.
He broke through their formation — but barely.
By the end, all were breathing hard. Some bleeding. But they were learning. And fast.
"You are no longer just hunters," Zaruko said, wiping blood from his brow. "You are the hammer. The iron in the earth. You carry more than bone and muscle. You carry purpose."
They nodded. Eyes burned with something new — not just survival, but pride.
As the sun fell behind the distant peaks, a watchman's horn cried out from the jungle's edge.
Three short blasts.
Zaruko froze mid-drill. The warriors stiffened. No one moved for a breath.
Not beasts. Not weather. Not prey. Something else.
He grabbed his spear and strode toward the wooden platform built high above the canopy. From it, two sentries pointed down into the forest where figures moved — not beasts, but men. Painted and scarred, wearing hide from pale-scaled serpents, and carrying long curved blades on their backs.
"Scouts," said the older guard. "They wear bone rings in their ears. That's… Koro'tan tribe."
Zaruko narrowed his eyes.
He had heard the name only once — whispered by travelers taken in after Ogou's descent. A warlike tribe to the south, known for their brutality and… something else. The word used had been ekolani, meaning "god-touched," but not in reverence — in fear.
He motioned his warriors to remain hidden.
Zaruko descended to the jungle floor and stepped forward alone, spear down but not dropped.
The scouts stopped as he approached. There were three of them — tall, wiry, marked by tattoos made of ash and crushed beetle shells. One of them grinned and raised a hand in a gesture that could've meant peace — or mockery.
"You are the fire-tribe?" the leader asked, voice like gravel. "The one whose god fell from thunder?"
Zaruko didn't respond. His silence was answer enough.
"You smell like another world," the scout said. "Your forge sings too loud. The forest doesn't like it."
"What do you want?" Zaruko asked flatly.
The scout's grin widened. "To see what must one day be burned."
Zaruko didn't move. "You came to scout, not fight. That means you fear us."
"No," the scout replied. "It means we obey our god."
And with that, they vanished into the underbrush — as silent as shadows.
Later that night, as the wind coiled through the village and drums echoed from afar, Zaruko sat alone before the temple.
He stared into the flame-shaped carving above the entrance, the symbol of Ogou.
Behind him, the village was growing. Stone paths. Watch towers. Forges. Schools of combat.
And stories. So many stories.
He heard a child earlier that day say, "Ogou burns the sky when he's angry."
Another whispered, "Zaruko has no heart. He traded it for flame."
Each story distorted truth — turning him from a man into something more, and something lonelier.
Maela joined him quietly, sitting on a smooth stone, her hands wrapped around a clay bowl of broth.
"They're afraid," she said. "Of the forge. Of Ogou. Of what we're becoming."
"They should be," Zaruko replied.
"That's not all they are," she said. "They're proud. They fight better. Eat better. Believe in something again."
Zaruko watched the stars flicker.
"And what happens," he asked softly, "when they realize Ogou is not a forgiving god?"
Maela's voice was gentle. "Then we teach them to become unbreakable."
The forge trembled at midnight.
Not a quake. Not a roar. Not a sound any ear could hear.
But Zaruko felt it — in the soles of his feet, in the marrow of his bones.
He rose from his mat inside the longhouse, already half-armored. The walls of his dwelling were scorched black from ritual fire offerings, and the sigil of Ogou, once painted with natural dyes, had now charred into the wall itself — a sign the god was listening.
Outside, villagers stirred. Dogs barked and children whimpered. The wind carried something bitter and sulfuric from the direction of the forge.
Zaruko strode toward the temple. Not fast. Not slow. Just… measured.
The temple stood silent, but the stone beneath it steamed faintly, as if the very rock was beginning to sweat.
Maela was already there, barefoot in the dew-soaked grass, her eyes locked on the temple's entrance. She didn't turn to greet him.
"It's not just the forge," she whispered. "The jungle… it's gone still. Too still."
Zaruko didn't respond. His eyes scanned the horizon.
That's when he saw it — a soft glow on the southern ridge. Not moonlight. Not fire from their own tribe.
Another camp.
Another forge?
No. This was too erratic. Uncontrolled. Orange mixed with something sickly green. Smoke rose like fingers scratching the sky.
"Koro'tan," Zaruko muttered.
"They've lit a war flame," Maela said, finishing the thought.
By dawn, a council had gathered.
The oldest hunters, the youngest fighters, the craftspeople, the mothers of children — all sat in a rough circle in the great meeting hollow.
Zaruko stood before them, flanked by two warriors and Maela.
"We are not the only tribe who has heard the hammer," he said. "Others fear what we've built. And fear leads to fire."
The crowd murmured.
One elder spoke. "Let them come. Our god will devour theirs."
Zaruko shook his head.
"Ogou does not fight our battles unless blood is offered, and we are not ready. You want him to walk again? Then build. Train. Forge. Worship with discipline — not desperation."
Kanu stood from the crowd. His wounds from the last duel had healed into thick, rough scars. But his voice was strong.
"I still question the path," he said. "But I will not question that you are leading us somewhere. I will train the youths."
Zaruko met his eyes and gave a small nod.
"Then we begin now."
That night, the forge opened on its own.
No flames spilled out. No voice called.
But a black anvil glowed faint red in the center, untouched until now.
Zaruko stepped toward it. Maela at his side. Behind them, a growing crowd.
"Make your weapons," the forge whispered — but not in sound.
It was in the hearts of those who stood ready.
Zaruko turned to the people. "This is the fire we've earned. Use it wisely. Shape it with respect."
And with that, the tribe began to forge — blades, tools, armor, and something more important than all of it:
A future that would not be shaped by fear… but by fire.