The world shook with drums.
Evan's heart kept pace, thundering against his ribs. He stood barefoot on packed earth, a crowd encircling him. The ground trembled as the warriors circled him. Their torches creating animated shadows. Their bare soles pounding in unison, each step striking like a war drum.
In his hands, he held arnis sticks. Polished wood, warm to the touch. He didn't remember picking them up. He didn't even remember walking into the ring.
Across from him, Alunay stood waiting. Her stance was low, poised, every muscle coiled. Firelight slid across her tattoos, making them ripple and shift as if alive. She spun her own sticks once, twice, each movement as fluid as river water, and the wood caught fire. Real fire, licking along the length of her weapons. The crowd roared its approval.
Evan looked at the arnis sticks clutched in his hands. 'Hold up. No one told me I had to join in this.'
The drums thundered faster.
Alunay lunged.
Their sticks collided with a crack like splitting bamboo, but instead of splinters, sparks erupted, showering around them in burning motes. Evan staggered, instincts trying to kick in, blocking clumsily. Another strike, another burst of sparks, like every clash was feeding some unseen bonfire.
He gasped. His sticks were glowing now, too. Flames crawled up from the tips, orange licking toward his hands, but instead of burning, they felt alive, like he was gripping bottled thunder.
'This isn't real', a voice in his head insisted. But the fire, the roar of the crowd, the sting in his arms, it all felt too sharp, too alive. He grasped for memory: the stick-fighting display from the feast. 'Was that last night?' The images tangled, slipping. Still, he forced himself to replay the sequence, hoping he could copy it fast enough to survive.
Alunay pressed forward, each strike sharper, faster. She was smiling, fierce and radiant, eyes burning brighter than the torches around them. Evan backpedaled, his arms shaking, trying to keep up. The crowd roared with every exchange, warriors stomping the ground in rhythm.
Then pain lanced up his leg.
Alunay's stick had cracked against his shin, precise as a chisel. Evan cried out, his leg buckling. He dropped to one knee, clutching at the sting.
Alunay didn't back away. She stepped closer, slow and certain, her body's warmth cutting through the heat of the fire and torches. Her face hovered just above his, eyes sharp, lips curved with something unreadable.
Evan froze. His heart forgot how to beat. The noise of the crowd dulled, fading into the background hum of blood rushing through his ears.
Her gaze flicked down toward his lips. She leaned in, slowly, deliberately. Evan's brain short-circuited. Every nerve in his body screamed, 'She's gonna kiss me. I'm not ready to have kids.'
WHACK.
Her stick shot up, merciless, crushing him right between the legs.
Evan folded with a strangled gasp. White-hot pain swallowed the world. The fire, the crowd, Alunay's burning eyes. All of it shattered into black.
He woke up screaming.
And the pain was still there.
For one disoriented moment, he thought the dream hadn't ended at all. His groin throbbed with brutal reality. He blinked into the morning light, squinting at a figure looming above him.
Not Alunay.
Punay.
The warrior woman stared down at him, her arms crossed. She hadn't even bothered with a stick. One well-aimed kick had done the work.
"The Datu asked me to wake you up" she said, her tone flat, cold as river stone. "It is past dawn. You are late for the training camp."
Evan curled up, clutching himself. "Oh my god, Punay! You nearly ended my bloodline!"
Her expression didn't change. "If a single kick ends it, then your bloodline was weak to begin with."
Pain made it hard to argue logically. "You… seriously, next time, just tap me on the shoulder, okay?"
"The Datu is waiting on you." she replied without acknowledging his words.
Evan buried his face in his hands. He couldn't shake the memory of Alunay's fire-lit eyes. How close she had leaned in. The intensity of it. 'Fantastic. I'm getting wet dreams.'
When he finally sat up, his legs still shaky, Punay was still watching, utterly unamused. She didn't blink. She didn't fidget. She simply waited, the way predators wait for prey to stop squirming.
"The children woke up earlier than you." she said. "Move. Or I drag you."
Evan groaned, dragging himself upright with the air of a man headed for execution. "Fine. I'm moving. Happy now?"
Punay turned without comment, striding toward the clearing. She didn't bother checking if he was following. She didn't need to.
Evan staggered after her, muttering under his breath. "Damn. I'm gonna need an alarm clock if these early morning meetings continue." Looking around, he muttered. "Why didn't Binalig or Hunyak wake me up?"
The clearing was already alive with motion when Evan stumbled in behind Punay.
Children stood barefoot on the packed earth, shifting nervously, some clutching crude spears or wooden sticks. Around them, the warriors formed a ring, bodies gleaming in the morning light. The warriors stood like carved stone pillars, muscles taut, tattoos swirling like rivers of ink across their chests and arms. Bold lines, jagged patterns, beast, rivers, and mountains etched in living skin.
At the center stood the Datu. His body bore more ink than skin, every inch a story of hunts, duels, and victories. Flanking him were the higher-ranking warriors, shoulders squared, gazes sharp, their tattoos dense as storm clouds.
Evan caught sight of Punay slipping into her place near the Datu's right. Her inkwork set her apart, more intricate than most warriors, though still shy of the Datu's veterans. She carried herself with a rigid poise, her face unreadable, her body taut yet motionless, like stone carved into the shape of vigilance.
'It didn't seem all that hard to get a tattoo here. Even the women in the weaving circle bore ink on their arms and shoulders, so they'd probably want to mark him someday too.' The thought tightened his stomach, but he forced himself to breathe. 'Well… there aren't any stories of warriors dying from infected needles, right? If they can survive all that ink, maybe I can too.'
The Datu's gaze cut through the crowd, landing squarely on Evan. The weight of it pinned him to the spot.
"You," the Datu said, his voice rolling like thunder across the circle. "You are late."
Every warrior's head turned toward Evan. He felt their stares like spears.
He tried to speak, but his mouth was dry. "Uh, I am so sorry. I, uh–"
A raised hand silenced him.
"You are new to this place, new to my people," the Datu continued. "For this, I forgive you once. But only once." His gaze hardened. "If you fail again, punishment will fall upon you, as it would upon any of my own blood."
Evan bobbed his head quickly. "Got it. I will be here early tomorrow. I promise." 'I'll have to make sure Hunyak or Binalig wakes me up. Anything but another groin-assisted wake-up.'
The Datu turned away, already dismissing him. The attention of the crowd followed. Evan exhaled slowly, feeling sweat cling to the back of his neck.
The Datu raised his arms, and silence swept the clearing. His voice carried effortlessly, rich and commanding. Even the restless children froze, eyes wide, as his voice rang out:
"Our lands are blessed," he began. "The soil feeds us. The sea fills our bellies. The rivers keep our children alive and strong. But blessings bring envy. Other tribes look at us and see plenty. They see strength. And in their hunger, they will come."
The warriors murmured low, the sound like distant thunder. Evan felt the weight of history pressing in. This wasn't abstract. Every line on their skin was proof of battles survived.
"But we are not beasts," the Datu went on. "We do not kill unless we must. When neighbors ask for help, we give it. When strangers come in peace, we offer them our hearth. This is our strength. We are generous."
"Because we are strong."
A rumble of approval rose from the circle. Spears tapped against the earth in rhythm.
The Datu's voice sharpened. "But kindness does not protect us from desperation. A starving man will steal. A desperate chief will attack. This is why we train. This is why our children must become warriors. So that when others come with envy in their eyes, we are ready to answer."
Evan shifted on his feet, heat prickling at the back of his neck. It was a good speech, sure, rousing, heavy with weight, but standing barefoot among half-naked kids about to start "warrior camp" made him feel like the world's worst impostor. He wasn't a warrior. He once had a savage side to him. The feral instincts, the savagery of the wolf inside, had been stripped away when he landed here.
If some god really had dumped him into this place, they'd chosen the cruelest joke possible: take the one interesting thing about him, his werewolf side, and leave him as nothing more than a plain old homo sapien.
Evan tried not to shrink under the weight of it. He already felt ancient compared to the wide-eyed kids next to him, and about ten times more nervous.
The Datu swept his hand toward the line of children. Barefoot boys and girls, the tallest barely reaching Evan's armpit. "We will give you the basic knowledge you need to begin as warriors. This camp is only the first step in your life as warriors. After this camp we will assign each of you a mentor. Being a warrior demands constant discipline and training. Today you begin not with the spear, nor the blade, but with the blowgun."
Evan blinked. 'The blowgun?'
The Datu lifted a hand, and warriors stepped forward carrying long bamboo tubes polished smooth, each nearly as tall as the children themselves. They laid them reverently on the ground, laying beside them small leather pouches that clinked faintly with what can only be small balls.
The Datu's voice rolled on. "The blowgun is our opening move in a fight. We use it to thin the enemy ranks before they even know we are there. The blowgun is a simple tool, yet it teaches the most important lessons: aim, breath, patience."
A hush settled on the children. Some bent eagerly to pick up the bamboo tubes. Evan crouched slowly, gingerly taking one into his hands. It was lighter than it looked, smooth, almost too perfect. He tilted it, peering through the hollow center. Like holding a really long straw. Evan reminisces about his childhood where he drinks boba pearls and stores them in his mouth in order to then shoot said pearls towards his classmates.
A hush settled on the children. Some bent eagerly to pick up the bamboo tubes. Evan crouched slowly, gingerly taking one into his hands. It was lighter than it looked, smooth, almost too perfect. He tilted it, peering through the hollow center. 'Like holding a really long straw.'
The thought tugged at an old memory. Back in school, during recess or lunch, he and his classmates would buy milk tea not just to drink it, but to weaponize it. Long before shooter games existed, they had their own ancient game. No name, no rules, no scores, just laughter and bruised little kid egos.
They'd sprint through hallways with drinks in hand, duck behind pillars and chairs, crawl under tables. Pearls stashed in their cheeks, they'd wait for the perfect moment before spitting out the sticky little projectiles. Half the fun was in the aim, half in the chaos when someone yelped or ducked too late. It was stupid, childish. Harmless too, since the squishy pearls barely stung on impact. But the principle was the same: draw breath, hold it, release with precision. Evan's lips twitched despite himself. 'Well this would be fun. How bad can a day of recess be?'
The Datu lifted one of the small leather pouches from the ground and loosened the tie. From it, he spilled a handful of rounded pellets into his palm. Clay, sun-baked and hardened, each one no larger than a berry. They clicked softly against each other.
"These are your training balls." the Datu said, holding them high for all to see. "Clay. Harmless but not painless. Heavy enough to teach you breath and aim. The darts are dangerous and will require more training to handle them without paralyzing yourself. Train with these and in time, you will be ready for the dart."
He shifted the blowgun in his hands. The bamboo looked like a flute, but the way the Datu spoke about it made him feel like he was holding a rifle.
A warrior knelt beside the Datu and placed down a half-shell of coconut, its round curve propped into the dirt like a target. Another followed, planting more shells in a neat row across the clearing. Their pale insides glinted in the morning light like a row of waiting skulls.
The Datu crouched, scooping a pellet between thumb and finger, then dropped it into the hollow of the bamboo tube. Holding it with two hands, one in front of the other, he raised the blowgun to his lips.
The clearing stilled. The children leaned forward. Even the warriors seemed to breathe in sync with him. His chest rose, slow and deliberate. He held it. Stone still. Unblinking.
Thwip.
A sharp crack rang out as the pellet slammed into the coconut shell, punching a neat hole through its white flesh. The shell rocked back, split, and toppled.
A ripple of awe surged through the circle. The children gasped. A few whispered. The warriors, however, did not react at all, as if such precision was as ordinary as breathing.
The Datu lowered the blowgun. His gaze swept across the line of children, heavy and uncompromising. "The blowgun does not shout. It whispers. The enemy will not know what hit them until it is too late. To master it is to master patience. To master patience is to master yourself."
He gestured to the row of coconut shells. "Now… it is your turn."
The warriors stepped forward, handing each child a pouch of pellets. When one reached Evan, he peeked inside and sucked back a snort. Clay pellets. Exactly what they'd said. 'I don't know what I was expecting.' The weight of the moment the only thing preventing him from loading up and starting a tapioca-ball crossfire with the kids as his instincts suggested. 'Great. I have the instincts of a 12 year old.'
The Datu's voice rolled out, final and commanding. "Begin."