Chapter 21 — Ghosts in the Dust
The moment we stepped into the remains of the Emberhook camp, I could smell what had happened. Burnt canvas. Melted tools. The copper sting of blood cooked dry. Whoever had hit this place hadn't come for loot—they came to make a point.
Sula walked ahead with that silent certainty she always carried into places like this. Her bow was down, but her gaze wasn't. I followed her past the wreckage of what had probably been a forge setup—Oseram work, judging by the twisted plating and broken smelter trays. The path curved, leading us around the last wagon, and that's when I saw the crosses.
Three of them. Crude, cruel things—nailed together with rail spikes and wire. Each held a body that was somehow still breathing, though barely. Skin cracked from heat. Lips black with blood. One tried to speak as we got close, a man with a split lip and eyes half-swollen shut.
"Help us… please… we didn't do what they say. We swear."
I felt Sula's eyes on me, not the man. Her voice was low but sharp. "That fancy toy of yours. Can it tell if what Vulpes said is true?"
I didn't answer right away. Just stepped past her and tapped the side of my helmet, activating the Focus. A shimmer crawled over the ground, scanning for density breaks and recent excavations. The overlay kicked in within seconds—a full map of the terrain, wireframe and glowing. One tunnel in particular lit up. Reinforced. Stable. Recent.
"They were tunneling," I said, my voice tight. I traced the line with one finger, watching how close it came to the Grove. "Consistent spacing, stable dig pattern. At the rate they were going, they'd have reached directly under Ironwood Grove in less than a month."
Sula didn't say anything. But her hand closed around the haft of her axe, and I saw the lines of her jaw set.
I shut the Focus off and turned back toward the crosses. One of the Oseram had started crying, his breath coming in soft, ragged bursts. Another tried to speak.
"They made us. Said they'd kill our families. We didn't even finish the tunnel—"
Sula didn't let him finish. "That's a lie."
Flat. Final.
She stepped closer, not to help, but to stare him down.
"You expect me to believe the Enclave reached your kin in the Claim?" she asked. "The Claim has black-powder caches the size of Carja temples and gates too thick for thunder to crack. The Carja tried. For years. With armies. They failed."
He didn't have an answer for that. Didn't need one.
"You did this for Shards," Sula said, quieter now. "For bribes. You thought the Enclave would pay well, and when the Legion found out, you begged like they'd care."
Then she turned, already done with it. "You sold us for coin. Let the vultures deal with the change."
I didn't move. Didn't speak. My gut twisted with something like doubt—but not disbelief. If you lived long enough in this world, you learned that betrayal came cheap. The Enclave didn't need armies. Just people willing to dig.
Ubba hadn't said a word. She didn't need to. The way she moved—controlled, efficient—told me everything. Her satchel was open, charges already in hand. She planted one under the drill rig, another inside the tunnel. No anger. No ceremony. Just work.
By the time I stepped up beside her, she was knotting the fuse cord.
"Five minutes," she said. "Tunnel, rig, and anything they buried with it goes down with a scream."
I nodded. "Cleanup," I muttered.
Sula stood a little ways off, arms crossed, her weight shifting just slightly. Her face was unreadable. Not cold, not cruel—just… resolved.
I didn't say anything. We both knew there was nothing else to be said.
"There still a Grazer herd out past the shale ridge?" I asked finally, trying to give her something else. "Focus pinged them about a mile out. Might've drifted east by now."
Her jaw worked for a moment. Then she nodded. "Yeah. They're still out there."
I waited.
She slung her axe over her back, looked over at me. "I need to kill something."
No venom. Just fact.
"A machine's better than nothing," she added.
I didn't argue.
Ubba stood and followed without a word, toolkit in hand and detonator timer set. None of us looked back.
We didn't need to.
The charges would say everything that needed saying.
We found the herd just past the shale ridge, exactly where the Focus had said. A dozen Grazers, spread out in a crescent pattern across the scrubland. Blaze canisters gleamed on their backs—each one a heart ready to burst. Watchers prowled the flanks, moving slow, heads pivoting like hounds on a leash.
They weren't bothering anyone. Just doing their job—tending the land, snipping grass, cycling biomass into Blaze. If I hadn't known better, I would've left them alone.
But Sula needed to kill something.
She didn't hesitate. First arrow flew clean, punching through the optic of the nearest Watcher. The thing dropped like a bag of bolts. No scream. Just sparks and coolant.
The second turned, twitching like it had felt the death of its twin. That one caught an arrow through the side panel—shorted instantly. The last Watcher bolted.
Didn't get far.
Ubba raised the Railwhistle and fired. Her spike caught the thing mid-turn, slamming through its hip joint and pinning it to a rock outcrop. It jerked once, then stilled.
I had my own weapon raised but didn't fire. Didn't need to. Watching them move—Sula and Ubba—it was like standing beside two storms that had figured out how to walk. No commands. No coordination. Just instinct honed to blade-edge.
Ubba never said a word during the fight. She just moved and scribbled. Every time I fired, she'd jot something in that grease-smeared notebook of hers, muttering equations under her breath. She wasn't critiquing. She was studying.
Sula? She was even worse in her own way. Ghost-silent. Killed two Grazers with precise leg shots before they even noticed. A third tried to flee. She chased it, vaulted a ledge, and buried her axe into its canister mid-sprint.
The explosion painted the grass with fire and steel.
I stayed out of their way, firing only when needed. And that's when it hit me—not fear exactly, but something close. A realization. A quiet, unsettling truth.
I wasn't the apex here.
I could fight. I'd survived worse. But these two? They weren't survivors.
They were hunters.
And I was lucky they considered me one of theirs.
The last machine twitched as its core died. Sula recovered her arrows without ceremony. Ubba was already elbow-deep in the remains of the Grazer, yanking components and sorting through the mess with practiced hands. She moved like it was routine. Like this wasn't combat—it was prep work.
I stepped closer and watched her work for a beat.
"We done here?" I asked. "Or do we want to push for Scrappers next? Maybe Shellwalkers if we cut east."
Ubba didn't look up. But at the mention of Shellwalkers, her head tilted—interested. Didn't say yes. Didn't say no.
Sula wiped her axe clean with a strip of cloth torn from some old satchel. Her voice wasn't tired, but it carried that weight she only ever used when things needed to be said.
"We should head back," she said. "The Elders need to hear what happened at Emberhook."
I nodded. She was right. Crucifixions, tunnels, Legion executions—this wasn't something you sat on. The Grove needed to know. Now.
Sula looked out over the scrubland, where smoke still curled from the broken canisters and scorched moss.
"We can hunt again later," she said. "But what we found… that changes things."
Ubba stood and slung her satchel over her shoulder. She tapped her detonator out of habit and looked to Sula. No words. Just the signal.
They were done here.
So we turned toward the Grove.
Didn't look back.
Didn't need to.
The only thing left behind was silence—and wreckage.
A couple hours later, we saw the Grove through the thinning trees—tall walls of ironwood rising like a scar across the ridgeline. The sun was dipping low behind us, throwing long shadows that made everything feel heavier. Smoke curled from the forge quarter—sharp with resin and hot metal. Watchers patrolled the wallwalks like they already knew.
They probably did.
Word always got back before we did. Odds were the Lottery winner beat us here.
When we stepped through the gates, it didn't feel like a return. It felt like we were walking into a verdict.
The summons had already gone out. Not a council session. Not a meeting.
A reckoning.
The Longhouse sat at the Grove's heart like it always had—sloped roof open for smoke, doors carved with battle records and ancestor glyphs. Tonight, those doors were open. No guards. No greetings. Just firelight and silence waiting to receive us.
I followed Sula and Ubba through, the heat hitting like a forge blast. Ash. Oil. Blood. It smelled like old memories and decisions that couldn't be unmade.
The Elders were seated in a crescent, watching the pit. Their faces were hard-lined with soot and years. Robes layered with faded battle-paint, charcoal pigments worked into every wrinkle. No one spoke. Not even to acknowledge us. This room didn't echo. It absorbed.
Jorta sat at the center.
He didn't need to stand. His presence filled the chamber like a coiled spring, leg braced in a support that had Curie's fingerprints all over it. He wasn't wearing armor—but he didn't need to. He wore the weight of earned silence.
My eyes drifted left—and locked.
Tarn. The old man from the bounty office.
I nodded.
He nodded back. Just once. That mattered.
Sula saw the exchange.
"You don't know who he really is?"
"I know he runs the bounty board and scares anyone stupid enough to lie about a kill," I muttered.
"He does that because he's bored, he was the tribe's Jorta before Jorta. Our champion. When he was young he broke a cult that raided from the highlands," she said. "Called themselves the Stone-Faced. Believed a mountain of gods was watching them. Four stone faces. They carved them into masks, painted them in blood, and wore them into battle."
"A mountain with faces?" I frowned. Something twisted in the back of my mind. Granite. Weathered heads. A ruin's name flared like static—Rushmore.
"They worship that?" I asked.
"Mountain of Judgment," Sula confirmed. "Each face speaks for a different god—conquest, fire, blood, and madness. They raid as offerings. No land claims. No politics. Just fire and sacrifice."
I didn't say it aloud, but I understood what had happened. Whatever survived up north had warped history into theology. Statues turned into gods. Propaganda into doctrine. Hell, I'd seen worse.
"And Tarn fought them?" I asked.
"Fought them," Sula said. "And made sure they stopped carving masks for a decade. Tarn doesn't care for council meetings and doesn't go most of the time but he's always there for matters of war."
We stepped into the circle. Ubba peeled off without a word, dropping her satchel beside one of the low forge anvils. Sula went to the center and knelt, fist pressed to her chest. I followed—didn't kneel, but bowed my head.
Jorta's voice cut through the smoke like a thrown blade.
"Tell us what happened at Emberhook."
Sula didn't hesitate. She stepped forward, standing tall in the firelight. No pomp. No raised voice. Just truth, laid down like iron on a table.
"We were out past the ridge tracking a Grazer herd. Hunting for machine parts. Standard work."
The fire cracked once.
"Then we saw the smoke. It wasn't a distress signal. No trade fire. Just a steady plume rising from Emberhook."
Some of the Elders leaned forward.
"We went to check it out. And we found the Legion."
That landed hard. No one needed her to explain what that meant.
"Vulpes Inculta was there. The Wolf of the East. Alongside twenty Legionnaires and a bound man wearing the mark of the Enclave."
Even Jorta reacted to that.
"The crucifixions were already done. The fires had already been lit. The Legion had executed the entire Oseram camp—except for three. And they left them on crosses as a warning."
She looked straight at Tarn. Steady.
"Vulpes didn't hide it. He said the Oseram at Emberhook had accepted payment from the Enclave. Shards. Tech. They were digging—not for salvage, not for Blaze. They were tunneling. Directly under the Grove."
She turned back to the Elders.
"Rion confirmed it. The shaft was reinforced, echo-dampened. Marked out like a military plan. They would've broken through within a month."
A long pause.
"Vulpes burned the camp to stop the betrayal. But he made it clear—it wasn't justice. It was discipline."
Tarn didn't flinch, but I saw the slight shift in his fingers.
"One of the survivors tried to lie. Said his family was threatened. But no one reaches the Claim. Not even the Carja with siege ladders and gods in their mouths. The Enclave didn't threaten them. They bought them."
Sula's voice was still steady. But heavy.
"We left them where they hung. Ubba destroyed the tunnel. There's nothing left."
She looked at the fire, then said, "They weren't scouts. They were contractors. And they sold us for Shards."
The room went quiet.
Just fire and judgment hanging in the air.
Tarn finally spoke. Voice like crushed stone under weight.
"The only thing you can trust about an Oseram," he said, slow and deliberate, "is their greed."
He didn't raise his voice. Didn't lean forward. But the words hit with the finality of a slammed gate.
"They'll trade you an oath at sunrise and sell your bones by sundown if there's a forge slot or a keg of oil in it."
His hand—his only hand—flexed once against his knee. The knuckles stood out white through the old skin.
"I warned the Grove the day we let Emberhook dig without a watcher on their shoulder."
One of the younger Elders—couldn't have been more than fifty, still too green to carry a voice in a room like this—opened his mouth like he was about to argue.
Then closed it. Good instinct.
Tarn didn't move his eyes from the fire. "Call it trade. Call it diplomacy. But letting outsiders cut into our land without someone counting their breaths? That was a mistake. And mistakes like this don't get patched with words."
He turned to Jorta now, gaze steady as forged steel. "They were digging under our bed while our warriors were bleeding on the border. That wasn't greed. That was war."
Jorta let the silence stretch a moment longer. He always did. He knew the weight of words didn't land right if you rushed them.
Then he leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, voice just above the fire's crackle.
"Ubba."
She looked up instantly from where she stood near the edge of the circle, soot-streaked and silent.
"Find warriors you trust. Ones nearby. Ones who won't ask questions."
She gave a single nod and was already moving. She didn't wait for elaboration. She didn't need to.
Jorta's voice followed her out, like a sentence passing judgment.
"Tell them the last of Emberhook is still breathing. He is to be taken—alive. No blade. No mercy. I want him whole."
Ubba slipped through the door and was gone.
Jorta turned back to the fire.
"He will hang until morning," he said, flat and final. "Then we will remind the Grove what betrayal earns."
No objections. No debate. Just the kind of silence that knew what justice looked like in Kansani lands.
I shifted slightly, muttering under my breath—just loud enough for Sula to hear.
"I guess that Lottery winner's not that lucky after all."
She didn't smile. But the corner of her mouth moved—almost a twitch. Almost.
No one else heard. Or if they did, they knew better than to speak.
The fire cracked sharply, like it agreed.
Jorta's eyes moved from the flames to Sula.
"Sula."
She straightened, not stiff, but ready.
"There are other mining camps near Emberhook. Smaller ones. Farther out. Too quiet, too long."
He leaned in slightly. "I want Ashmarked eyes on them. Warriors who know what silence can hide."
Sula nodded. "How many?"
"Three will do. Four if one's clever." He glanced at Tarn, who gave a low grunt that counted as approval.
"Don't just check for Enclave signs," Jorta said. "Listen. Watch the pace of their work. The shape of their tunnels. If even one shaft looks like it curves toward the Grove, I want it sealed."
He paused, then added, "And if they run—don't chase. Report. We'll deal with it properly."
"I'll pull from the current Ashmarked rotation," Sula said, already half-turning.
"Good," Jorta nodded. "And pick ones who know how to keep quiet. We don't need panic. We need proof."
His voice lowered, not out of softness, but weight.
"Trust is thinner than blood these days. Make sure it doesn't spill where it shouldn't."
Sula gave her final nod, turned on her heel, and walked out. Not hurried. Just precise. The kind of pace people remembered.
Jorta watched her go, then turned his gaze on me.
"You," he said.
I didn't flinch, but I straightened.
"Madam Curie says I'll be able to walk by tomorrow. Says the brace will hold, and my weight won't tear the tissue."
He shifted slightly in the throne, testing the weight. I heard the faint creak of bonewood and leather.
"So tomorrow, we begin."
"Training?" I asked, already dreading it.
"No armor," Jorta said. "No weapons."
He leaned forward, eyes sharp.
"Just blood. And sweat."
I almost asked something. Almost.
Jorta smirked faintly. "Dawn. If you're late, I'll make you run until your bones forget who you used to be."
The fire popped. Like it approved of the threat.
I gave a slow nod.
"Dawn it is."
The Longhouse doors closed behind him with a low groan of wood and iron, sealing in the weight of judgment and war-talk. Sula was already gone, off to gather the Ashmarked. Ubba would be busy somewhere in the Grove pulling together whatever quiet killers Jorta had asked for to grab the Lottery winner.
That left me standing in the middle of a smoke-stained sky with a promise of blood and sweat looming at dawn.
So I turned and made for the only place in the Grove where the weight of all that didn't press so hard.
The Spiked Paw wasn't loud tonight. It never was when the Longhouse was lit. But the firepits still glowed behind shuttered windows, and the scent of grease, seared meat, and old woodsmoke rolled out to meet me before I even touched the door.
Inside was quiet conversation and clinking ironware. No shouting. No music. Just a low, worn rhythm of warriors eating, drinking, waiting for orders—or mourning them.
Brakka caught sight of me from behind the bar. Her expression didn't change. She just gave a slow, upward chin jerk and glanced toward an empty table near the hearth.
I walked over and sat down.
Didn't speak. Just held up three fingers—slow and clear.
She nodded once and disappeared into the back.
A few minutes later, she brought the plate herself.
Thick-cut bison steak, charred along the edges and still bleeding in the center. A full cob of roasted corn, blackened slightly where the husk had curled. A split potato dripping with churned root butter and chopped herbs. Salt crystals sparkled off the fat like they meant it.
I didn't say a word. Just gave her a quiet nod.
Then I started eating.
No ceremony. No pacing. Just fuel. Each bite calculated—protein, starch, fiber. Enough to keep me standing through whatever nightmare Jorta had planned for dawn.
No armor. No weapons.
Just blood. And sweat.
I'd need all the strength I could get.
Maybe even a miracle.
I was halfway through the steak when it started—faint at first. A shift in the air outside, not the kind you could see, but the kind you could feel. The clink of cutlery inside the Spiked Paw slowed. Conversations thinned. Then came the footsteps. Heavy. Rushed. Accompanied by sharper sounds—boots scraping stone, armor clattering, the cadence of someone being dragged who didn't want to move.
Then the shouting began.
"Please—no, no, I told you everything! I told the Legion, I told the Wolf! I didn't know they were tunneling under the Grove—"
I paused, my fork hanging halfway between plate and mouth. The voice was ragged, fear-worn, but I knew it. Not from closeness—just the kind of knowing that sticks when someone survives what they shouldn't have.
The Lottery winner.
The last man Vulpes left on the cross.
Not because he was innocent. Because he was useful. A reminder.
I didn't move from my seat. Didn't stand or lean forward. Just listened. The entire tavern was quiet now. Warriors who had been halfway into their drink stopped mid-sip. Conversations died on the edge of breath. Even the hearth crackled softer, like the flames didn't want to interrupt.
"I swear I didn't know… please, don't—"
There was a thud outside. Solid. Final. A sound you hear when someone's knees hit the ground hard and don't get back up. Something wet followed it. Maybe spit. Maybe blood. Maybe both.
Nobody moved.
Brakka kept wiping down the bar with a piece of canvas that had probably been a shirt once. She didn't look up. No one did. This wasn't a surprise. This was a conclusion. A line being drawn in a language older than any we spoke.
I picked up the fork again and resumed eating.
The steak was still warm. Salted well. The kind of meal you only get after blood, coin, or favor. I took another bite and chewed slowly. The crunch of black pepper hit the back of my tongue, followed by the sear-char at the edge. Good cut. Rare. Just enough to keep me ready for what came next.
Someone outside gave a sharp command. No words—just tone. There was a brief scuffle. Then silence. The kind of silence that settles deep, like snow burying a corpse.
I didn't stop. Corn next—roasted just right, char around the edges. Bit into it, letting the kernels snap between my teeth. The tavern around me hadn't returned to normal. It wouldn't. Not tonight. What happened outside wasn't some public spectacle. It was a message. The Grove didn't tolerate betrayal. Not when it risked the bones under its feet.
The potato was soft. Fluffy. Soaked in butter and chopped herbs. I scraped up the last of it with a bit of torn bread and cleaned the plate, each movement measured. Controlled. No one here was going to speak his name. Not now. Not later. Whatever favor he thought the Lottery earned him, it hadn't been enough. And honestly? It never was.
Brakka didn't ask questions when she passed by. Just gave me a brief glance and kept moving. Her eyes didn't linger. That was respect—or maybe just understanding. She'd run the Paw long enough to know what kind of man listens to screams without flinching.
By the time the begging had faded, by the time they dragged his body—or what was left of it—out of earshot, I was wiping my mouth clean with the edge of my sleeve. No applause. No outrage. Just a tavern full of warriors who knew exactly what that noise meant and exactly why no one got up to stop it.
The plate was empty now. My stomach was full. And somewhere outside, the last tie to Emberhook's shame had been severed.
I leaned back in the chair and let the warmth of the hearth soak into the bones I'd be breaking again at dawn.
Morning came cold and quiet.
I pulled on the new clothes I'd bought yesterday—plain tunic, simple pants, both undyed and still stiff at the seams. No armor. No coat. Just the basics, untouched by sweat or blood. That would change soon enough.
Jorta had been clear: no gear. No blades. Just blood and sweat.
I stepped out into the Grove just as the sun crept over the ridgeline, casting sharp golden light across the paths. The streets were mostly empty, but they weren't still. Something hung in the air—tense, waiting.
When I reached the square, I saw why.
He was hanging there. The Lottery winner. Limp. Head bowed. Arms bound behind his back and strung from a pole like a broken signpost. His boots barely cleared the dirt. Not high enough to elevate him—just enough to say he was finished.
A wooden board had been nailed beneath his feet. The glyphs were deep, slashed with intent. My Focus translated it the moment I looked.
Oathbreaker.
That one word carried all the weight the Grove needed.
A small crowd had gathered. Traders, mostly Oseram. A few Nora exiles stood apart, arms crossed, expressions grim. Further back, a Carja merchant in faded copper trim shifted uneasily, trying not to draw attention. A few other faces didn't belong to any tribe I recognized—dust-runners, maybe, or clanless men who wandered too far to call any place home.
Near the front of the crowd stood a Tenakth man, tall and thick-shouldered, with warpaint faded by the road. Beside him was an Ashmarked woman, the streak of ash cutting down her face marking her clearly enough. She spoke softly to him—explaining, from the sound of it. Her tone didn't carry, but I caught a few words. Enclave. Tunnel. Betrayal.
The Tenakth man listened, eyes never leaving the body.
When she finished, he gave a single slow nod.
Not shocked. Not angry. Just understanding. Like the whole thing confirmed something he already knew.
No one tried to cut the man down.
And the Kansani didn't have to guard the square. They simply stood at its edges, quiet and still, their silence more commanding than any blade.
I didn't linger.
I turned away and headed for the Longhouse.
The Grove had sent its message.
Now it was my turn to bleed.
I was almost to the Longhouse when the door opened.
Jorta stepped out.
The door shut behind him without sound, sealing off the weight of leadership, judgment, and war-talk. What stepped into the open morning wasn't the Warchief of Ironwood Grove. It was the warrior beneath it—unarmored, bare-chested, and quiet as stone.
His body looked carved, not built—a map of violence etched across muscle. Scars laced his chest and arms like a story told in blade marks. Some were deep and jagged, the kind that spoke of close calls and killing blows survived. Others were thin and deliberate—ritual cuts, maybe. The kind you choose to carry. Not one of them looked recent. Not one of them looked accidental.
He wore only pants—simple, dark, tied at the waist with a strip of worn leather. No boots. No bracers. No belt. There was nothing ceremonial about it. This wasn't a display.
This was a man who didn't need anything else.
He glanced at me once, eyes sharp beneath his brow, then gave the smallest nod. A motion with his head. Follow.
Then he turned and began to walk.
I didn't hesitate. Fell in behind him without a word. There was no instruction. No declaration of what came next. Just his back, broad and scarred, and the slow, steady rhythm of his footsteps pressing into the dirt.
We moved through the Grove like a knife through still water.
And the Grove parted.
People saw him coming and stepped aside without being asked. No one cleared the way with panic or urgency—it was smoother than that. Quieter. They just moved. Like their bodies understood what their mouths didn't need to say.
Oseram traders paused mid-argument and shuffled back behind their carts. An Ironbone apprentice with a hammer paused mid-swing, lowering the tool as Jorta passed. A Nora exile, face half-painted in ash, stepped off the path and dropped her gaze without hesitation.
None of them were commanded to move.
Jorta didn't lift a hand or raise his voice.
He simply walked.
And the path unfolded around him.
I saw a group of children standing near the edge of the path, just past a rack of training poles. The oldest of them couldn't have been twelve. The youngest might've just learned to walk. They stopped playing the moment they saw him.
One of the girls—tangle-haired and barefoot—leaned forward, eyes wide as moons. She grabbed her brother's arm and whispered something. He stared up at Jorta like he was watching a storm walk on two legs.
The man didn't look at them. Didn't slow down. But he didn't need to.
That look would stay with them for the rest of their lives.
The kind of memory that formed early and never left.
The awe in their faces wasn't just about fear. It was reverence. They were seeing what the word "warrior" actually meant, not as a story or a title—but in flesh.
And they understood.
Everyone did.
This wasn't just the Warchief walking to the training grounds.
This was the man who carried the Grove's spine in his scars.
The man who bled so others didn't have to.
I followed, a step behind, feeling every eye shift from him to me. Not with judgment. With expectation.
I was the one walking with him.
And that meant something.
As we neared the edge of the square and passed into the hard-packed earth where training drills were held, the last few bystanders cleared away. No words. No greetings.
Just space.
Because whatever came next wouldn't need an audience.
It would speak for itself.
The training grounds weren't far from the Grove's outer edge, tucked between a line of broken stone pillars and the long rise of ironwood fencing that boxed in the southern fields. It wasn't a battlefield, but it felt close.
As we stepped onto the packed earth, I saw movement already in play.
Kansani warriors were drilling in loose rings and rows—some moving in formation, some locked in one-on-one combat. Dust kicked up around bare feet and leather boots as they moved, the rhythmic thump of strikes and footwork rolling across the space like distant thunder.
One group ran through spear formations in tight lines, pivoting in unison as a senior warrior barked cadence. Their coordination was clean—fluid. Every movement loaded with intent.
To the left, a trio of fighters circled each other with blunted axes and short blades. They weren't holding back. The clang of metal and the heavy breath of impact made that clear.
Closer to the center, a pair of younger Kansani traded blows without weapons. One was clearly better—faster, more grounded—but the other refused to go down. They grappled, twisted, rolled, until one slammed the other into the dirt with a shoulder-driven throw. No one watching flinched. They just nodded and resumed their own work.
Further on, I saw something even more telling.
A warrior armed with a staff was sparring against a man with nothing but his hands.
Not even uneven.
Not even close.
The unarmed man slipped past a swing and drove his knee into the staff-user's ribs so hard I heard the breath rip out of him. The lesson was clear.
In Kansani training, weapons were tools—not crutches. The body came first. The rest was just application.
Jorta didn't slow. Didn't even glance at the warriors around us. This was normal for him. These were his people, shaped in his shadow.
But someone stepped in our path as we neared the inner ring.
Tarn stood with his remaining arm resting casually at his side, the other shoulder capped with the familiar worn cuff where his hand used to be. Same burn-scored leathers. Same grim expression. He didn't look at me. He looked at Jorta.
He didn't look at me.
He looked at Jorta.
And for a heartbeat, I saw something I hadn't expected.
Jorta was surprised.
It didn't show in his body—just the slight tick of his brow, the small pause in his stride. But it was there.
Tarn gave a half-smirk and spoke before Jorta could.
"I'm having my potential replacement tend the bounty board this morning," he said. "Couldn't pass up the chance to see you take on a student that wasn't blood."
The words hung there for a moment.
Not disrespectful.
But sharp.
Measured.
Jorta said nothing in return. Just stared at Tarn for a breath too long.
Then nodded once.
Not an agreement.
Not a greeting.
Just a silent acceptance that the old warhound had earned the right to stand here.
Tarn turned toward me finally, giving me a long look. Not appraising. Not impressed either.
Just cataloging.
Then he stepped aside and gestured toward the center of the ring.
"This should be interesting," he muttered.
Then he folded his arms and waited.
I looked at Jorta.
He looked at the dirt.
Then he walked toward it like the day had finally begun.
Jorta stopped near the center of the ring, letting the dust settle around his bare feet. He scanned the grounds with that quiet, commanding focus of his—like he wasn't just looking at warriors, but reading them. Gauging weight, rhythm, presence.
Across the ring, one of the instructors barked a short command and clapped his hands twice, calling his drill line to a halt. He wore a tight-wrapped training vest and a coil of braided cord at his hip. His head turned toward us the moment he sensed Jorta watching.
Jorta didn't raise his voice.
"Rask."
The instructor straightened at the sound of his name, fist coming to his chest out of habit, not formality.
Jorta tilted his chin toward the gathering of trainees nearby.
"I need one of yours."
Rask nodded slowly, already understanding.
"Not the strongest," Jorta added. "Not the weak one either."
He turned slightly and looked at me—not with doubt, just matter-of-fact.
"I need to see what I'm working with."
Rask didn't hesitate. He stepped away from his group and walked down the line of resting warriors, scanning them like tools on a rack. His hand landed on the shoulder of a broad-shouldered young man in his early twenties—lean, scar across one brow, forearms wrapped in practice band.
The warrior stood immediately, no questions asked.
Rask jerked a thumb toward the ring.
The chosen fighter stepped forward and rolled his neck once. His expression was neutral. Not cocky. Not worried. Just prepared.
Jorta stepped aside and motioned to the cleared ground in front of him.
"Strip down to tunic," he said to me, voice low. "No boots. No tricks."
I nodded and moved to the edge of the ring.
The real test was about to begin.
The warrior stepped into the ring across from me—bare-chested, no war paint, no tribal markings. Just wrapped forearms and a body that looked like it had done this every day for years. No pageantry. No intimidation tactics.
I gave a quick nod. "Thanks for the match."
He didn't nod back. His eyes narrowed, not with hostility, but with something colder. Resentment, maybe.
"Didn't think I'd show up today just to get called average," he said, voice low.
I couldn't blame him. Jorta had chosen him with a phrase that cut both ways.
"Better than being skipped," I said.
He exhaled through his nose. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a threat.
"Ekar."
"Rion."
That was it.
He settled into a stance I didn't recognize—low, loose, almost lazy on the surface. His weight shifted side to side in increments so small they were barely visible. It was the kind of posture that didn't belong to any formal school I'd ever studied. But it was alive. Tuned to pressure. It made my spine itch.
I didn't have anything that looked like that.
What I had was the standard issue: U.S. Army Combatives Program, Level 3. Integrated into my system interface during one of my early nights in this world. Nothing elegant. No flourishes. It wasn't about flow or tradition.
It was built for close-quarters survival.
Neutralize. Dominate. Disable.
That was it.
No flair. No psychology. Just the mechanical process of removing an enemy's options.
I brought my hands up, shoulders loose, elbows tucked in. Chin down, lead leg slightly forward. It wasn't flashy, but it was effective—at least against things I understood.
The problem was—I didn't understand this.
Ekar looked like he wasn't doing much at all. Just swaying slightly, arms hanging loose, his breathing calm and rhythmic. But there was something wrong with how hard it was to pin down where his first strike would come from.
Jorta stood just outside the ring, watching the air between us like it was a trigger.
He gave a short nod.
And the match began.
Jorta gave the nod.
Ekar moved instantly—but not fast. Not explosive. Just forward.
I braced, shifting into a high guard—palms open, elbows tight, weight evenly split. Standard combatives. Textbook stance. Centerline covered. Room to pivot, room to shoot in. Every muscle ready.
But Ekar didn't come at me like a brawler. He pressed.
Every step was deliberate. Not stomping. Not slow. Just forward, like he was narrowing a hallway that only I seemed to see. His hands stayed loose, shoulders hunched—not relaxed, but loaded.
I stepped left, circling, trying to break the line. He mirrored me. Not exactly—but enough to make it feel like I was the one reacting. My guard drifted higher, and I felt it—that tightening sensation. Like the space was shrinking. Like the ring had more of him in it than me.
Then he feinted a drop.
I bit on it. Shifted low. Classic mistake.
He clamped my wrist with his lead hand and slammed his forearm across my collarbone—more of a body-check than a strike, but it drove me back two full steps.
He didn't follow.
He didn't have to.
That was a message.
I reset, shook out the tension, and stepped forward. This time I initiated—quick jab high, pivot step, shoulder fake low. He didn't move.
He absorbed.
Took the jab on his forearm, let my pivot push past him, and rolled with the angle—half-clinch, no grip, but his hip drove into mine and suddenly I was off-balance. He didn't throw. He didn't slam.
He just guided me down to one knee.
No points. No pin. No lock.
Just control.
I surged up, elbowed toward his midsection, and broke contact. That part worked. Distance. Breathing room. My kind of range.
But Ekar was already circling again. Same posture. Same unshakable walk.
Jorta hadn't said a word.
Tarn was watching from the edge with the faintest curve to his mouth.
This wasn't about winning.
This was about truth.
And the truth was simple.
He was fighting with something alive—something passed down and practiced since before the world ended.
I was fighting with a manual.
He pressed again.
Not with speed. With certainty.
Every step said I've done this before. Every shift in his hips, every tension in his shoulder—it wasn't just about technique. It was language. He was speaking in a dialect of bruises and breath, passed from mentor to student across campfires and battlefield funerals.
And I realized something else.
He wasn't trying to win.
He was trying to show me where I didn't belong.
The manual I'd learned—the combatives program, the angles, the flowcharts—they were good. But they were taught, not earned. Good for leveled floors and measured engagements. For soldiers in matching armor on predictable fields.
This wasn't that.
This was bone and breath and spirit made motion.
He was moving with something old—carried in his blood, not learned in a book. Every motion had memory behind it. Dust, lineage, pain. It wasn't just a style. It was a story.
I moved like someone who had read the answer sheet.
That was the difference.
Ekar circled in again. Same rhythm. Same forward pressure. But this time, I didn't yield.
He reached to tie up the arm again—probably to dump me with another shoulder off-balance. I stepped in first, clinched tight, and drove my shoulder into his sternum. I felt the shift in his chest as the air buckled from the impact.
He grunted—more from surprise than pain.
I followed with a low-line knee strike, snapping it into his thigh just above the knee. The contact was solid. In a real fight, it would've disrupted his stance, maybe worse. I tried to pivot around, angle behind him, go for the back.
But he didn't give ground. He moved with me, hips squared, weight balanced. No panic. No overcorrection. His body had the kind of memory that didn't just come from drills—it came from surviving bad days and worse nights.
Still, I'd landed clean. That wasn't nothing.
My system recognized it. The old Modern Army Combatives training kicked in automatically—control the centerline, maintain posture, isolate the throat or joints. If I'd had a knife in my hand, this would've ended differently. Because that's what the system was built for. Confined spaces. Sudden violence. Eliminate the threat. Move on.
But this wasn't that. This was open dirt, no walls, no weapon, no exit. And Ekar? He was made for this.
I stepped back, breathing steady, eyes on his footwork. He gave a small nod. Acknowledged the hit. Respectful, but far from impressed.
He shifted his stance again.
It wasn't just a spar anymore. He was done measuring. Now he was going to drive.
Ekar moved.
Not like before. Not like he was circling, testing, feeling me out.
Now he came fast. Direct.
The rhythm vanished.
This wasn't slow pressure anymore—it was momentum weaponized. His stance unraveled into a blur of shoulders, knees, and low-angled force. I tried to read the approach, but there wasn't time.
He opened with a wide step—not toward me, but just off-center. It dragged my attention. A fake.
The real hit came from the opposite side—his elbow slammed into my ribs before I could turn.
I stumbled, and he was already on the next beat.
He drove a shoulder check into my chest, not enough to knock me down—but enough to stagger me exactly where he wanted. The second I shifted my foot to recover, he snapped a low kick into the back of my calf. My balance went. My breath followed.
The next thing I felt was his forearm across my throat—not a choke, but a direction. He guided my momentum, twisted his hips, and let the ground meet me.
I hit hard. Sand sprayed up past my eyes, and before I could roll or rise, he was already stepping back.
No follow-up.
No gloating.
Just demonstration.
Jorta didn't say a word. Tarn might've made a sound—something low—but I didn't hear it clearly. My ears were full of my own pulse.
Ekar stood a few paces off, breathing steady. Not winded. Not even angry. He looked like someone finishing a set of drills he'd done a hundred times before.
He didn't speak.
He didn't have to.
The message was written across the ache in my ribs and the sand in my teeth.
This is what it means to live your style. To earn it. To bleed into it.
I moved like a soldier. A machine.
He moved like someone who had been raised to fight.
I felt like a beginner.
"Enough," Jorta said.
His voice cut through the ring like a hammer finding the center of an anvil. Calm. Final.
Ekar stopped mid-shift and straightened immediately. No hesitation. No follow-through. He backed away with the quiet, professional grace of someone who'd done his part and didn't need to prove anything else.
"Thank you, Ekar," Jorta said. "You may return to your line."
Ekar gave a shallow bow of the head—more to Jorta than to me—and walked back toward the edge of the field. A few of the other trainees clapped him on the shoulder or murmured quiet comments, but he didn't show any reaction. He just moved back into formation like nothing had happened.
I pushed myself up from the dirt, brushing grit from my side. My ribs ached. One eye still tracked sand. But I was grinning just slightly as I stepped back toward Jorta and Tarn.
"No wonder you've held the Legion back for so long," I muttered. "If that guy's considered average..."
Tarn snorted.
"Try it when they're wearing war paint," he said.
I turned to look at him.
He didn't smile. He didn't need to.
He just stared at me with that same burnt-out veteran calm that always said you ain't seen shit yet.
Jorta stepped into the ring as I finished dusting myself off. He didn't speak right away. He just looked me over—head to toe—like he was weighing something more than bruises.
"Your stance is solid," he said. "Guard's tight. You don't waste motion."
I nodded, keeping my breathing steady.
"But you move like a man expecting walls," he continued. "You're efficient—but not present. You reset after every strike, like you're making room behind you."
He paused, then looked me dead in the eye.
"You weren't trying to dominate the ring. You were trying to survive in it."
I didn't argue. He wasn't wrong.
"It's a style from the Old World," I said. "Military-based. Close quarters. Meant for soldiers clearing buildings, not matches in open space. You fight tight, fast, close. Disable and move on. Doesn't care about rhythm or crowding a space—just about keeping breathing."
Jorta nodded slowly.
"Combat in a hallway," he said. "Not a circle."
"Exactly."
He folded his arms.
"Don't dismiss it entirely," he said. "It did what it was made to do. You landed hits. You didn't freeze. You held your shape under pressure."
Then his eyes narrowed slightly, voice lowering.
"But if you want to fight here, with us—where dirt is the only wall, and your name is on the line every time you bleed—then you'll need more than memory and manuals."
He gestured back toward the other fighters.
"You'll need to learn what it means to fight with your back open. With rhythm. With intent."
He didn't mean music. He meant presence.
"Use your style for what it's meant for," he finished. "And learn what it isn't. Then fill the gaps."
Jorta looked back toward the other fighters, then returned his gaze to me.
"Before anything else," he said, "you're going to learn the basics of what we call Ghost Pressure."
He said it plainly, like he was naming a tool or a law of nature. But the weight behind the words landed with the same finality as his fist would've.
"It's the foundation of how we fight. Every Kansani knows it. Every warband moves with it, even if they don't name it."
He took a few steps toward the center of the ring, dragging a line in the dirt with the edge of his heel.
"You can't learn my style," he said, "not Deathclaw Kenpo—not until your body knows how to carry our rhythm."
I blinked. That was the first time he'd ever said the name out loud.
Deathclaw Kenpo.
His style.
Not a tribal system. Not a common form. A personal creation.
Jorta didn't look at me when he said it. He was already turning back to face the ring.
"You've got a tool meant for corners and thresholds. It's sharp. But it cuts one way."
He tapped his chest lightly.
"I'm going to teach you how to breathe in a fight. How to take space. How to give it meaning. That's Ghost Pressure."
He tilted his head slightly, and his voice dropped lower—almost conversational.
"Without that, you'll never understand what you saw in the ring today. And you'll never survive what comes next."
Behind me, Tarn let out a short, sharp snort.
I glanced over.
He wasn't smiling. Just shifting his weight slightly, arms still folded across his chest, one brow raised like he'd heard this speech before—and remembered exactly what followed it.
He didn't explain. Didn't interrupt. Just stood there with that weathered calm, like a man who'd watched too many fools walk into the same lesson and limp out wiser.
Whatever Ghost Pressure entailed, he knew it wasn't going to be gentle.
Jorta didn't acknowledge the sound. He didn't need to.
It hung in the air just long enough to register.
Then Jorta turned back to me.
"Strip it all down," he said. "Forget your manuals. Forget drills. Today, we start over."
He raised a hand and pointed to the line he'd drawn in the dirt.
"Step into that. And breathe."
A week later, I moved differently.
I didn't realize it at first. Not until I caught myself stepping through an opening with weight I wouldn't have used before. Not until I felt the ground responding instead of resisting.
Ghost Pressure wasn't a stance. It wasn't even a style—not the way the manuals framed things. It was rhythm. Contact. The way you occupied space instead of just moving through it.
Jorta hadn't taught it gently.
Each day started before sunrise and ended when my legs felt like rusted iron. No paint. No ceremony. Just drills in the dirt, sweat on the dust, and the constant feel of his boot correcting my center of gravity like gravity was a lie I kept telling wrong.
He didn't speak much during the lessons—only enough to correct the worst habits. When I moved like a soldier, he struck. When I moved like a fighter, he watched.
I learned to walk the edge of another man's reach without stepping into his kill zone. Learned how to sway just enough to throw off a read, and press in when his stance broke under tension. I learned where to put my foot when I wanted my opponent to think I was retreating—and where to put it when I wanted him to feel it coming.
I learned to breathe.
Not like a machine.
Like a Kansani.
Jorta didn't praise. But he stopped correcting. And that was something.
I still hadn't touched Deathclaw Kenpo.
But I was finally walking the same ground it came from.
And that meant I was getting closer.
As I finished another pass through the footwork line—heels low, hips loose, breath steady—I felt the shift in my HUD.
A quiet pulse.
Then a soft ping inside my system, followed by a blinking prompt just below eye level.
[SYSTEM UPDATE]
Combat Style Unlocked:Kansani Martial Style — Ghost Pressure (Foundational)
Classification: Cultural Close-Quarters Combat
Status: Learned through lived instruction.
Effect: Enables rhythm-based movement, psychological misdirection, spatial pressure tactics, and totemic stance adaptation. Paint integration currently locked.
Note: This is not a style learned from a manual.
This is muscle-born, breath-taught, and pain-earned.
I stared at the prompt for a moment.
It was rare for the system to say anything that poetic. Usually it just listed stats or functions.
But this time… it was right.
This wasn't something I'd downloaded in a bunker.
This had been hammered into me one correction at a time, one fall at a time, one full-body ache at a time.
I blinked the display away.
Jorta hadn't noticed—or maybe he had and didn't care.
I stood straighter, shoulders loose, spine balanced.
Ghost Pressure—foundational—was mine now.
It didn't mean I was Kansani.
But it meant I was no longer just a visitor.
Jorta watched me finish the last drill of the day without saying a word. That wasn't new. What was new was the fact that, for the first time in a week, he didn't correct a single movement.
When I looked up, his arms were crossed, but his posture had shifted—less instructor, more war-chief considering the next piece.
"You're ready," he said.
I wiped sweat from my brow, still breathing steady. "For what?"
Jorta stepped forward, slow and deliberate, until he stood across from me again in the dust.
"To begin learning Deathclaw Kenpo," he said. "But to do it properly… you have to learn the way I did."
That stopped me cold. "How'd you learn it?"
From the edge of the training circle, Tarn barked a laugh—sharp, dry, knowing. "How else do you think, boy?" he said. "You're going to go fight one."
I turned toward him slowly.
He didn't smile. He just shrugged, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "You're going to go fight a Deathclaw."
The words hit like a rock dropped in my gut. Not metaphorical. Not sparring. Not symbolic.
Literal.
I looked back to Jorta.
He didn't deny it.
I could only say one thing.
"Fuck."