The village sat quiet under the thick canopy, the night's coolness settling deep into the earth. Zaruko paced near the forge, mind restless with the weight of coming battles. Suddenly, footsteps—soft but deliberate—approached.
He turned, eyes catching the silhouette of a man stepping from the shadows. The stranger wore simple clothes, a weathered tunic and rough sandals, but there was something about him that made Zaruko's breath still.
No thunder, no lightning. No fiery aura. Just a man.
The visitor stopped a few feet away, gaze steady and calm. "Zaruko," he said, voice low but clear. "You called."
Zaruko's chest tightened. He didn't kneel. Didn't bow. "Ogou," he said quietly, using the name he knew from old tales and ancestral blood.
The man smiled, a glint of something ancient in his eyes. "That's what they called me once. And what I still am. But you'll find me here, among your people, as just a man."
Zaruko studied him, searching for the divine in the ordinary. "Why appear like this? Why not show the fire, the storms?"
Ogou shrugged, folding his arms. "The thunder and flame can inspire fear, but they can also blind. You need to see me clearly, not as a god on a throne, but as your ally. Your friend."
For a long moment, the two simply regarded each other, two souls bound by history, fate, and war.
Then Ogou stepped closer, lowering his voice. "The fight ahead is brutal. You'll need more than strength—you'll need trust, cunning, and heart. And I'll be with you, in every step."
Zaruko nodded, feeling the old tattoo on his chest warm beneath his shirt. "No gods. Just us."
"Exactly," Ogou said with a rare laugh. "Now, tell me what worries you most."
Zaruko took a deep breath, the jungle night wrapping around them like a cloak. "The enemy grows stronger. Their god is no ordinary spirit — it's a shadow I've never seen before. It devours like a beast, and I fear what will happen if we face it unprepared."
Ogou nodded slowly, eyes narrowing. "Every god has its hunger, but not all consume without purpose. Your enemy seeks to conquer and erase, but we stand to protect and build. That is our strength."
Zaruko looked away briefly, remembering the faces of his people — hunters, mothers, children — all counting on him. "I've fought wars before, but never like this. Here, the gods walk among us, and their battles shake the land."
Ogou's expression softened. "That is why I am here. To guide you, yes. But also to remind you — the blood in your veins is the blood of warriors. Your ancestors carried my flame into the world once before. This is no accident."
Zaruko's fingers brushed the familiar tattoo at his chest. "Sometimes I wonder if I'm ready to carry that weight again."
"Readiness is forged in fire and trial," Ogou said. "You will stumble. You will bleed. But you will rise — because you are not alone."
The god-man looked out over the sleeping village. "I will walk with you, Zaruko, but it is you who will lead. Trust your instincts, and do not be afraid to question me. Even gods can learn."
Zaruko smiled faintly. "That's a relief. I've never been good with blind obedience."
Ogou laughed, a low, warm sound. "Good. Because this fight will require every bit of your mind and heart. Let's prepare."
As the first light of dawn kissed the treetops, Zaruko felt something he hadn't in a long time — hope.
The sun cracked the canopy, golden light piercing through the trees like lances. Smoke drifted lazily from the village fires as the people stirred, unaware that a god had walked among them only hours before.
Zaruko moved through the village with calm purpose. His mind was a storm of ideas — battle formations, trap lines, fallback points — but his face remained unreadable. Only Maela noticed the shift in his energy. She intercepted him near the edge of the central clearing, holding a woven basket of herbs.
"You didn't sleep," she said, matter-of-fact.
"I did what I needed," he replied.
She studied him. "Something changed."
Zaruko hesitated. "I… remembered something important. Something about where I come from. And who walks with me."
Maela's brow furrowed. "You speak like someone who's already seen what's coming."
"Maybe I have," he said, then gently touched her arm. "Get the elders and hunters. I need to speak to them."
Maela nodded and turned away, her steps quick. Zaruko exhaled.
Later – The War Table
The village's makeshift council — warriors, elders, and Maela — gathered around a broad, flat stone where Zaruko had drawn crude battle lines in ash and charcoal.
"We cannot face them head-on," Zaruko began. "Their numbers are larger. Their god is active."
"Then what do we do?" asked Jinba, leaning on his cane.
"We make them bleed for every step," Zaruko replied. "I've set three lines of defense. Spikes hidden in the brush. Deep pits along the lower river paths. At the forge wall, we hold — no retreat."
"And their god?" Maela asked.
Zaruko glanced toward the jungle canopy. "He will come. But not yet."
No one knew what he meant, but none dared question the man who had turned their scattered lives into something solid.
Only Maela held his gaze a moment longer, her eyes searching his.
Zaruko gave nothing away.
The days leading up to battle felt like holding breath underwater. The jungle was alive — too alive. Birds stopped singing. Predators moved in silence. Even the insects buzzed differently.
Zaruko stood at the forge's perimeter as villagers moved with purpose, each one now part of a growing war machine. Children sharpened stakes. Elders wove traps from vine and bone. Hunters patrolled the outskirts in teams of three. Spears were stacked like crops at harvest.
At the center of it all stood Zaruko, organizing, adjusting, calculating.
Maela approached him again, eyes narrowed in concern. "You haven't stopped moving since the morning he came."
Zaruko didn't answer right away. He watched two boys learning to bind thorns around a club shaft, then replied, "Every hour we work is a life saved when the storm arrives."
Maela lowered her voice. "You still haven't said who 'he' is."
He turned toward her fully. "A man I trust. A man who knows how to prepare the forge. The one who left it burning."
Maela nodded slowly, her suspicion giving way to belief — not because she understood, but because Zaruko's conviction demanded faith.
She touched his shoulder. "Then we'll hold."
[Scene: The First Blood]
A scout returned that evening, running through the village like he was chased by spirits.
"They've crossed the western ridge!" he gasped. "Their fires burn red. They carry bones — human bones."
Zaruko clenched his jaw. "Then we have no more time."
He ordered the children hidden inside the caves near the southern rise. The elders followed, carrying food and scrolls of knowledge passed down in whispers.
Warriors gathered at the three checkpoints: jagged stone trenches to the north, tree-root snares to the west, and the central wall — reinforced with spiked logs and coated in sap that burned when lit.
Maela came to Zaruko one last time before the fighting began. "If you die—"
"I won't," he cut in.
"—if you do," she insisted, "don't forget that we chose you. Not the sky. Not some god. We did."
He placed a hand on her cheek. "And I will fight for every one of you."
Then he turned, walking into the dusk — where red banners glowed like blood against the coming night.