The jungle had a different voice when you were hunting men.
It whispered instead of howled. It swallowed footsteps. Even the wind seemed to crouch, waiting for the clash.
Zaruko moved like shadow between the thick roots of ancient trees, his spear resting across his back, hand gripping the hilt of his blade. Beside him were twenty of his most disciplined warriors — men and women who once knew nothing but fear, now moving with the poise of hunters, not prey.
They wore war-paint of blood and ash, faces streaked with ochre and black charcoal. Many had etched Ogou's veve onto their arms or chests in fresh ink, though few truly understood it yet. They didn't need to. They followed Zaruko's orders because they had seen the offerings vanish. They had felt the shift in their bones when Ogou stirred beneath the stone.
And now, they marched on the Bone-Eaters.
The Bone-Eaters' camp was a crude sprawl of bone-tied pikes, decaying trophies, and half-burned totems. It smelled like rot and iron. There were no walls, only brute numbers and arrogance. They had slaughtered weaker tribes for years. Their warriors fought naked but for chains and bone necklaces, faces painted with the blood of their kills.
They did not expect resistance.
They certainly didn't expect formation, or tactics.
Zaruko's strike came at dawn.
From the high ridge above the camp, he signaled with a flick of bone-white cloth — the only visible thing in the green-dark.
Within seconds, chaos was born.
Fire. Smoke. Screams.
Two warriors crept in first — twins, silent as falling leaves — and slit the throats of the Bone-Eaters' outer sentries. The bodies were dragged back into the foliage. No one heard them fall.
Next came the fire pots — clay balls filled with oil, sealed with cloth. They landed inside huts and weapon tents, lighting with quiet fury.
By the time the Bone-Eaters rose from their skins and stumbled into confusion, Zaruko's front line was already inside the perimeter — moving like blades across the mud.
Zaruko himself leapt from the ridge, landing in the middle of the camp, spear snapping forward in a precise arc. His movements were not wild or savage. They were trained. Controlled. Efficient.
He parried an axe, dropped his opponent with a swift trip, and drove the butt of his spear into the man's throat before pivoting to block another strike.
His warriors fought in small groups, backs to one another, rotating in disciplined spirals. Where most tribal battles became chaotic brawls, Zaruko's force moved like a living unit.
It was not a battle.
It was an execution.
The Bone-Eaters' war chief, a brute named Karsh, bellowed orders from the center of camp. He was enormous, covered in layers of stolen bone armor and jagged tattoos. His weapon was a double-headed club made from fused skulls and iron rods.
"Kill the shadow-man!" Karsh roared, eyes locked on Zaruko. "His head brings you freedom!"
Zaruko didn't answer. He simply walked toward him.
Their warriors pulled away, sensing the challenge. Two predators in a ring of mud, fire, and fear.
Karsh rushed first, swinging with brute strength.
Zaruko sidestepped, letting the club whoosh past his ribs. He jabbed with his spear, scoring a line across Karsh's shoulder. The war chief growled and struck again — wilder this time.
But Zaruko had already moved.
One slash, one spin, one precise thrust.
The spearhead sank into Karsh's side just below the ribs. Zaruko yanked back and pivoted, ducking under the counterattack. A second later, he lunged — not with his weapon, but with his entire body — shoulder-slamming the chief onto his back.
Karsh snarled, blood foaming at his lips.
Zaruko didn't hesitate.
One clean motion.
His blade slid across Karsh's throat. The Bone-Eater gurgled, twitched, and stilled.
Silence fell.
The Bone-Eaters began to drop their weapons. Those who didn't were cut down where they stood. No mercy was offered — only a choice: submit or burn.
By nightfall, the camp belonged to Zaruko's people.
They did not celebrate.
They worked.
They rebuilt the perimeter, secured the wounded, and burned every totem of the Bone-Eaters' old gods. The only symbol left standing was the veve of Ogou, now carved into a large flat stone placed at the camp's center.
Offerings were laid upon it that night — blades, stolen chains, bloodied armor — all set aflame in silence. And every offering vanished before the flames touched them.
Later, Zaruko stood alone at the edge of the battlefield. He stared at the moonlit jungle, jaw tight, arms folded.
Aliné approached. Her spear was sheathed, her face unreadable.
"You were right," she said. "They fought like beasts. You fight like thunder."
Zaruko said nothing.
"You're not happy?"
"We won," he replied. "But it's only the first."
"You think others will come?"
"I know they will. Power never grows in silence. Someone will notice the fire. And fire always draws enemies."
Aliné looked toward the camp. "Then let them come."
That night, Zaruko dreamed.
But it wasn't a dream. Not really.
He stood in a red-lit forge, alone. No walls. No roof. Just heat, metal, and the sound of hammers striking unseen anvils.
Across from him stood a man made of smoke and iron.
Ogou.
His eyes were twin embers. His voice was like blades drawn across stone.
"You burn well," the god said. "But war is not fire. It is iron. It must be shaped."
Zaruko dropped to one knee.
"Rise, son of the broken blood. Rise and build."
When he awoke, his hands were coated in soot.
And the forge in the old Bone-Eater camp — abandoned for years — was glowing.
Zaruko didn't speak of the dream.
But the forge that glowed without fire became sacred. He ordered it cleaned, repaired, and guarded. No one was to use it until the next offering, and even then, only in silence.
Some called it Ogou's mouth, a place where weapons would be born and fates reforged.
The villagers began to whisper stories: that Zaruko could summon gods through flame, that the mark on his skin burned hotter after every victory, that even the jungle beasts avoided the new camp.
In time, the Bone-Eater's den was renamed.
It became Kan Ogou — Ogou's Hold.