The first pellet hit.
But it didn't split the coconut shell clean in two with that sharp, satisfying crack the Datu's shot had made. It just smacked into the surface and bounced off, falling unceremoniously on the ground.
'Glad to see something good is coming out of my childhood shenanigans.'
Evan slipped another clay pellet into his mouth. The earthy taste coated his tongue as he rolled it around, wetting it with spit. He drew a deep breath through his nose, careful not to suck in through his mouth and idiotically choke on the pellet. He steadied the tube with both hands.
thwip.
The pellet zipped out.
'Bullseye again. Good.'
Or so he thought. Reality had other ideas.
He didn't even hear the Datu approach, but suddenly a voice came from right behind him, low and amused. "You have done this before. But why are you putting the pellet in your mouth? I have seen men choke on their own darts. Their suffering was drawn-out, their faces contorted in pain I wouldn't wish on anyone."
Evan froze, mid-reload.
'This guy is really too perceptive. I just hope he doesn't decide I'm some kind of monster or spy.'
He turned, forcing a sheepish smile. "Oh, yeah. We only put the pellets in our mouths. Makes them slide out smoother, you know? Kinda… lubes them up." He let out a dry laugh. "But yeah, we don't do that with the actual darts. I've seen what poison does to people and it is not pretty."
The Datu's expression didn't change, but his eyebrows rose a fraction.
Evan cleared his throat and picked up another pellet.
'Hope that doesn't fill his suspicion meter enough to label me as a threat. I'm kinda ok staying in the eccentric-but-harmless category.'
The children beside him looked like they were in worlds of their own. Their faces were masks of concentration. Lips pressed thin, cheeks taut, eyes narrowed to slits. Every exhale was a measured thing, like the clearing itself had turned into one huge lung and they were all trying not to waste a single breath.
He loaded another pellet, this time careful not to put it in his mouth. He pressed it just outside his lips, awkwardly balancing it there. Deep breath.
thwip.
The pellet sailed… and plopped onto the dirt a few inches shy of the coconut. The "proper form" had wrecked his aim completely.
'Damn it. Guess I'm too used to having tapioca balls sitting in my mouth before I spit them out.'
By midday, his pellets now smacked the coconut squarely. His aim had finally adjusted to the times. 'Didn't take too long for this old dog to unlearn some tricks.'
The children beside him still struggled. Most pellets fell short, thudding into dirt or rolling away harmlessly. They didn't complain. The Datu drifted among them, hands folded, offering quiet corrections: "Keep the tube steady. Hold it with two hands. Breathe through the nose. One big breath and one quick exhale."
The morning ended with a surprise. Without announcement, the warriors fell in behind the children and set their own shells in a neat row opposite them. Their movements were crisp and practiced. Each man loading, breathing, firing in a steady cadence that turned the clearing into an orchestra of clay hitting shells.
When afternoon came, the clearing looked strangely bare. The rows of coconut shells were gone, their shattered remains swept to the side. In their place stood the warriors, facing one another across the same stretch of packed earth where the shells had once been.
The Datu motioned for the children, and Evan, to stand beside them.
"Strike where you can," the Datu said, his tone calm but carrying an edge of command. "Arms, legs, shoulders. But not the head. Not the groin." He paused, letting his gaze sweep over them. "Learn to strike even when you feel pain."
The warriors wasted no time. They raised their tubes to their lips, dropped into low, bracing stances as if to anchor themselves, and let loose.
The sound that answered was not the crisp staccato of clay on coconut but something duller, more organic. Pellets thudding into flesh with a wet, sickening plop. It cut through the clearing like a reminder. These were not practice shells anymore.
Evan felt his stomach tighten. He set the tube to his mouth, shot the wiry boy opposite him a quick, apologetic nod, and mouthed, "Sorry."
thwip.
He heard the boy grimace and grunt and the boy adjusted his aim. The next pellet skittered off and barely tapped Evan's toes.
'Don't remember it feeling this… child-abusy back when I was still a child and the pellets were soft tapioca balls. But now that I'm an adult shooting hard clay, I'm half-ready to call the FBI on myself.'
Evan looked around awkwardly and saw the Datu looking right at him.
'Oh well, here goes nothing'
This time Evan used far less air. The pellet barely rolled out of the tube and dropped at his feet.
The Datu stepped closer, the low authority of his voice cutting through the hum of the clearing. "You do him no favors, Aso. By sparing him now, you leave him unprepared. If the village is attacked and a dart finds his flank, will he thank you for mercy? No. He will die. He will fail his duty."
He lifted his voice so everyone could hear. "This training is not punishment. It is preparation. Enemies will use darts as we do. If we are not ready, we will fall. We are strong. Grit your muscles, steady your breath. You are warriors. Do not flinch from what must be learned."
By dusk, their arms trembled with fatigue. The Datu dismissed them with another of his solemn pronouncements.
"Today, you learned to aim while in pain. You have done your village proud."
His gaze swept across them, landing briefly on Evan.
"Be ready, when the full moon rises, the darts will be real. You will coat them with poisons… and test them on yourselves. We will experience the poison and we will be stronger for it."
The clearing went still. The children's faces turned pale, lips pressed thin in dread.
'Self-poisoning to increase tolerance without modern medicinal backup. Hope them herbs be up to the task.'
The Datu turned and left the clearing, his warriors following in silence, the leaves crunching under their feet like fading drums.
Evan let out a slow breath and spotted the boy he'd been pelting all afternoon limping away toward the treeline. He jogged to catch up.
"Hey, wait up! Listen, I'm... sorry for hitting you. I tried to spread the shots around, but I know they still hurt."
The boy turned, red welts dotting his arms and legs, but his grin was small and sincere. "It's fine. The Datu said it's training. My mother will be proud when she sees the marks."
Evan blinked, unsure what to say. "Right. Uh... take care on your way home, champ."
The boy gave a short nod and jogged off, his small silhouette vanishing between the trees.
Hunyak was already waiting outside when he returned, a clay bowl in her hands and the faint smell of roasted tubers drifting from the hut. Her soft smile met him halfway.
"Hey, Aso. Welcome back. How was the warrior training?"
Evan subconsciously rubbed the side of his arm, the kid's red fresh in his mind. "It was… rough. I had to hit a kid with a blowgun."
From inside the hut came a low, amused chuckle. Binalig stepped out, a strip of smoked fish clamped between her teeth.
"Wow," she said, voice laced with sarcasm, "you actually hit him? Considering how good you are with a bow, I'm impressed."
Evan exhaled, too drained to repartee. "Yeah… Thought so too. Turns out my childhood left me with some instincts. I used to play with tubes when I was a kid. Much shorter ones, much softer pellets."
Binalig raised an eyebrow. "How would that be fun? Sounds like a waste of good tubes."
Evan gave a tired grin. "Yeah maybe."
Hunyak set the bowl down gently and wiped her hands on her skirt. "It's alright, Aso. You're teaching the boy how to ignore pain. That is valuable too."
Binalig grinned, taking a swig of water. "If it helps, I once broke a boy's tooth during training. His mother thanked me for making a warrior out of him."
"Good to know," he muttered, stifling a yawn. "Anyway, just… make sure to wake me up tomorrow, alright? I can't be late again. The Datu looked like he already had a punishment lined up when he was lecturing me this morning. Didn't like that eager glint in his eye."
Binalig snorted, tearing another bite from her smoked fish. "I'll make sure you wake up. No promises you'll like how, though."
Hunyak smiled softly. "I'll do it gently. Don't worry."
The three of them sat down to dinner. The roasted tubers were sweet and earthy, the smoked fish salty and crisp around the edges. The day's exhaustion settled over Evan like a warm blanket, heavy and familiar. He yawned again, barely bothering to cover it.
Between bites, Hunyak spoke in her usual calm tone. "The paddies are ready. The soil's been turned, and the rice seeds have sprouted. We'll move them to the main field once they're strong enough."
"That's good news," Evan said, leaning back slightly. "At least something's growing without anyone getting shot at."
Binalig chuckled. "Give it time. Even rice fields attract trouble."
Evan smiled faintly. He yawned again, bigger and longer, practically inhaling half the room.. "Then I'll practice my aim. Wouldn't want to miss when the rice starts fighting back."
He finished his meal, mumbled something that might've been a goodnight, and laid down in his corner of the hut. The cool bamboo mat pressed against his back, and the world quickly blurred at the edges.
As sleep crept in, one last stray thought crossed his mind.
'Oh damn. I don't think I pooped or showered today. That can't be healthy.'
Evan woke to Hunyak was gently tapping his shoulder. "Time to get up," she murmured.
Beside her, Binalig nudged his foot with far less mercy. "Up, Aso. Before the Datu decides to drag you there himself."
Evan groaned, half buried in his mat. "Alright, alright… I'm up."
He headed towards the shit cliff armed with a scoop of fresh water, took care of his business, then went down to the river.
The water was cold enough to sting, biting at his skin as he waded in. He dove under, the chill wrapping around him like a full-body slap.
When he surfaced, he dragged in a sharp breath, the fog of sleep gone for good. He swam a short stretch downstream, muscles waking with each pull, then made his way back to the shallows.
By the time he stood back up, droplets running down his arms, he felt ready to face whatever challenges the Datu had for him today.
When Evan reached the clearing, most of the children were already lined up. Their bamboo tubes were gone, replaced by a quiet restlessness that came from standing too long beneath the rising sun.
He scanned the familiar faces. The wiry boy from yesterday, his welts barely visible. The warriors still as imposing as ever with their tattooed bodies. Punay, already straight-backed and alert. But no sign of the Datu. Yet.
'Is there a grace period here?' he wondered. 'If the Datu doesn't show up, do we just… go home? Pretend it's a rest day?'
Before the thought could settle, a shadow moved between the trees. A man stepped into the clearing. Tall, broad-shouldered, his tattoos coiling across his chest and arms like dark vines. Only his hands were left bare.
He didn't speak at once. His gaze swept over them. Slow, deliberate, and heavy enough to draw every spine a little straighter. When he finally did, his voice carried the weight of someone who had shouted over storms and battlefields.
"The Datu will not come today," he said. "You'll train under me."
The children fell silent. Even the calls of the birds seemed to halt for a second.
Evan recognized him, one of the Datu's senior warriors, the same man who'd been half-grinning when he called him "Aso" on his first day. But now, the grin was gone. His eyes were steady, his face carved into something that left no room for jokes.
Another warrior stepped forward, his arms burdened with freshly cut poles. Each was longer and thicker than a blowgun, tapering into a crudely sharpened point.
The warrior took one from the bundle with ease, testing its weight as if reacquainting himself with an old companion. He let it roll between his palms before thrusting it forward in a sharp, fluid motion that sliced the air with a low hiss.
"This," he said, voice steady and deep, "is your lesson for today."
He shifted his stance, knees bent, the spear moving like an extension of his arm. "It lets you hunt. Defend. Kill."
Each word came with a strike. A forward thrust that cut straight, a side slash that flowed into a pivot, a low jab that would gut a boar, a sweeping strike to the throat of an enemy. The weapon's reach was long, but he moved as if it weighed nothing, his body flowing through the rhythm of practiced violence.
"With it," he continued, circling slowly before the line of children, "You feed your family. You bring down fish from the shallows and wild pig from the underbrush. You hold off those who would steal what is yours. And if they turn to flee…" He shifted his grip to the rear end of the shaft, coiling his stance like a serpent ready to strike. He shifted his stance, drawing his arm back and miming a throw. "…you make sure they don't get the chance."
The children watched wide-eyed, their faces mirroring every movement of the warrior's arms. Evan felt a wry grin tug at his lips. 'I've heard of show don't tell but maybe show AND tell is the real secret.'
He straightened and turned back to them, his expression unreadable. "But all of that starts with the first strike. The stab. Two hands, firm grip. Step forward, drive the point straight. Begin."
The line of children obeyed, their movements awkward and uneven. Wooden points jabbed the air in clumsy rhythm.
The spears were heavier than the bamboo tubes, and it showed. Sweat collected on foreheads, small arms trembling after a few minutes. Evan's own shoulders began to ache, a dull throb creeping in despite his attempts to pace himself.
And just like yesterday, once the rhythm set in, the adults joined in. Silent, synchronized, their faces focused on the task at hand. He caught sight of Alunay among them, her hair tied back, her stance sharper than most of the warriors.
Then the drizzle began.
No one stopped. Spears thrust forward through the rain, wooden shafts slick with water.
The warrior's voice surprised him. "Keep going, Aso! The enemy doesn't wait for clear skies! The crocodile moves even faster through the flood!"
Evan gritted his teeth. The cool rain ran down his skin, a sharp contrast to the fire in his arms. Each breath felt heavier, each thrust slower. Yet the rain stirred something familiar. Old warnings, voices from his childhood scolding him for playing under the rain. Colds, feverish dreams, and water cravings.
As an adult, it had been simple. Just a quick shower after the rain, and the threat vanished. And later, when his body changed, when the wolf came into his life, sickness became nothing but a memory.
He missed the days when his body felt like a fortress. A hungry starving fortress, but still. A fortress.
By afternoon, the rain had passed, leaving the clearing slick and heavy with the scent of wet soil. The sun hid behind thin clouds, turning the air thick and hazy.
Lantawan called them together again, voice carrying over the sound of dripping leaves. Evan had caught his name earlier, spoken among the warriors during lunch.
"Now we throw," Lantawan said simply.
He drew his arm back and let the spear fly. It sliced the air with a sharp, clean hiss before burying itself deep into the mud across the clearing. He didn't even wait for the echo to fade before striding after it, retrieving it like it weighed nothing.
"Throw as one," he said, dropping the stick back in the pile. "Then pick up your sticks."
Some kids started early, impatient. Others hesitated, waiting for someone else to fail first. Eventually, the spears flew. Most fell short; some spun wildly, bouncing off the earth in awkward tumbles.
Evan's first throw slipped from his wet grip, somersaulting end over end before landing miserably a few paces ahead. He stared at it for a second. They waited until the last spear hit before trudging forward to collect them again. His second landed nose-first, a little better, but still humiliating.
On the third, he took his time. Adjusted his stance, remembering Lantawan's form and tried not to overthink it. The spear left his hand smoother this time. Not perfect, but it actually looked like it was meant to fly.
A murmur rolled through the warriors. Evan turned just in time to see what they were looking at.
Behind the line of children, Alunay stood apart. Hair tied back, feet planted firm in the damp earth. A stack of spears rested by her side. She drew one, raised it fluidly, and threw. The spear sang through the air, cutting a perfect line before striking deep into the mud. Another followed. Then another. Each motion was clean, unhurried, almost ritualistic. Ten throws, ten perfect landings. Each one sinking in a neat row across their side of the clearing.
No one said a word when she turned and walked off, her silhouette framed by mist.
Everyone went back to their throws after that. The clearing filled with the steady rhythm of wood cutting air, the dull thuds of missed landings, and the occasional grunt when someone's arm gave out mid-motion. Every throw felt heavier than the last.
The wiry kid from yesterday winced with every release. At first, the children had jogged to retrieve their spears with enthusiasm. Now, they trudged. Some lingered just a little longer than necessary, dragging their feet as if savoring every second away from the drills. Every step a stolen moment of mercy for their aching muscles.
Evan could feel his own stamina unraveling thread by thread. His arms trembling just to hold the shaft steady. Each throw took more effort than the last, and each time he bent down to pick up the spear, it felt like lifting a small tree.
'I don't remember ever being this tired. Not even during college college mandatory basic reservist military training. And those guys actually bragged about being brutal.'
When Lantawan finally called an end, Evan's arms hung limp at his sides. Around him, most of the kids had already collapsed where they stood, panting, crawling toward the women carrying water jars like leaves seeking the sun.
Lantawan's voice still rang over them, talking about discipline, about the spear being an art that demanded respect. Evan tried to listen, but the words turned into background noise. His body had already made the decision his mind hadn't: his legs carried him out of the clearing, half-stumbling, half-drifting, moving purely on muscle memory.