They waited.
From the hilltop, cloaked in tree shade and silence, Zion's small group stood tense, eyes fixed on the chaos below. Cries rang through the valley. Smoke curled high into the sky. The hunted tribe—nearly three hundred souls—ran like animals through the brush, children tripping, elders screaming, warriors dying.
Kael's jaw was tight. Thalia gripped her spear like it was part of her arm. The others whispered, ready to act.
But Zion did not move.
He stood still, arms folded, his eyes sharper than any weapon. It was clear to everyone: he was watching everything—the paths, the attackers' formation, the terrain, the panic, the flaws.
"Why aren't we helping?" one youth whispered, almost accusatory.
Zion said nothing.
Then, he spoke—not loudly, but firmly.
"Not yet. We don't save them by running in blind."
Kael turned to him, tense.
"So what's the plan? Let them all die?"
Zion looked him in the eye, calm as ever.
"We help them. But not directly. We move wide. We remove the killers. Quietly. Efficiently."
Confusion flickered across a few faces. Some frowned. Others exchanged unsure glances. But none argued further. They trusted him, even if they didn't yet understand him.
They moved in a crescent formation, just as Zion had taught them during sparring. Each strike was swift, each movement like a dance. He had trained them not only to fight, but to think—to kill with purpose, to move like smoke, to act like shadows.
The attackers, overconfident and drunk on power, never stood a chance.
Thalia moved through their ranks like wind through grass. Kael broke shields with a single blow. The others followed, fighting in silence, their sigils glowing faintly under the moonlight. In less than half an hour, the attackers were gone—their bodies left in the wild, the forest reclaiming them.
Not a single survivor from the hunted tribe saw the battle.
From afar, the three hundred survivors staggered forward, still in fear, still running—but no longer chased. A miracle, perhaps. A twist of fate, maybe.
Only Zion and his people knew the truth.
Back at camp, the group regrouped, breathless but alive. Kael finally asked, voice calm but curious:
"Why didn't we reveal ourselves?"
Zion's answer came with a strange serenity.
"Because desperation doesn't always lead to loyalty. They must choose to live, not because we carried them—but because they kept moving. We need to know who they are… before we offer anything more."
Thalia nodded slowly.
"You're testing them."
Zion shook his head.
"No. I'm watching them. Just like the gods watched us."
That night, they sat around the fire, quiet, thoughtful. Not a single one of them questioned Zion's decision. They didn't have to.
The attackers were gone. The hunted had survived. And their leader had kept his word: protect without being seen.
But in the eyes of Zion's companions, something had changed.
He was no longer just a survivor with strange knowledge.
He was a leader. A tactician. A god-marked force