The hunters left at dusk.
They moved like shadows slipping between trees, spears and clubs wrapped in cloth to stop them from knocking against anything and giving away their position. Baba Voss led at the front, steps silent, head tilted to catch every shift in the wind.
The women and elders watched from the edge of the village until the last footstep faded.
No one asked when they would be back. In this world, "when" always had another question wrapped inside it.
If.
For the first time since my rebirth, Baba went to war without me anywhere nearby.
My body was still small, bones still knitting under the Sovereign Physique. I couldn't walk as far or as fast as a hunter yet. But the System didn't consider physical distance as a limit.
That night, as snow began again—thin and powdery, whisper-soft—I sat in Baba's hut, watching the fire.
Haniwa snored, curled under furs across from me. Smoke coiled lazily up through the vent hole. Outside, the wind brushed against leather walls in low, steady breaths.
Then the world shivered.
Dominion Link: Extending…
Connected Node: Alkenny Hunter Warband
The fire in front of me dimmed, then brightened. A new layer of awareness slid into place behind my eyes.
I didn't see what the hunters saw. There were no images. But I felt positions—faint sparks moving through darkness.
Seven sparks, clustered together. One pulsed brighter than the rest.
[Hunter]
[Hunter]
[Tracker]
[Elder Warrior]
[Baba Voss]
My breath hitched.
New Feature Unlocked: Command View (Primitive)
Effect: Rough awareness of friendly units in familiar territory.
I closed my eyes and leaned into it.
Trees. Ravines. Frozen streams. I couldn't see them, but I sensed how the sparks changed direction, slowed, or spread apart. The warband moved south, then east, following the trail left by the first slaver we'd killed.
Blood on snow. Broken brush. Bootprints.
Hours blurred.
They slowed near a depression in the land—a bowl of earth surrounded by crooked pines.
Enemy Presence Detected
Estimate: 15–20
Dogs: 6
Carts: 2
Fire Sources: 3
A slaver camp.
I opened my eyes to the fire in front of me, back in the hut, hand curled into the fur at my side.
Found them.
"It's late," Haniwa muttered sleepily, rolling over. "Why are you awake?"
I looked at her. "Baba fights."
Her face softened. "He'll win."
I nodded, not because I believed he couldn't die, but because I knew something the slavers didn't:
Baba wasn't just a hunter anymore.
He was my first general.
The Slaver Camp
Night swallowed the ravine where the slavers camped.
Leather tents hunched like dark teeth around a central fire. Carts formed a rough inner barrier behind sharpened stakes. The smell of sweat, smoke, dogs, and old blood hung heavy.
Slavers laughed loudly, confident. Their voices bounced off the rock walls.
"…fetched a good price, that last batch…"
"…Payan nobles always want strong boys…"
"…might take some of their women next time…"
Their words painted pictures I didn't need sight or System prompts to understand.
The sparks of our hunters clung to the rim of the ravine, still and silent.
Engagement Probability: High
Tactical Suggestion: Night Assault
Pros: Enemy clustered around light, attention inward.
Cons: Terrain risk.
Recommended: Yes.
Of course.
In a world where everyone was blind, fire wasn't just light. It was foolishness—announcing exactly where you were.
Alkenny lived without it unless necessary. Slavers relied on it like crutches.
The hunters waited. Dogs dozed near the fire, paws twitching in dreams.
Then a single spark—Baba's—pulled back his arm.
I felt it before it happened.
He threw a stone.
It dropped from the ridge and crashed into a pot of melting snow over the flames. Boiling water spilled, hissing, splashing over a dog's flank.
The animal yelped, jumped, stumbled into the fire. Its fur caught at the edges, flame racing across oily hair. Its howls ripped through the camp.
Every slaver turned toward the noise.
That was their first mistake.
No one thought to look up.
The hunters slid down the ravine walls, using roots and rocks and old scars in the earth as handholds. Snow muffled their landings. They hit the ground in a rough ring around the camp.
Baba didn't shout.
He just stepped forward.
That was the signal.
Clubs smashed down on skulls from behind. Spears punched through backs and out chests. Knives carved throats open before men could scream.
The first five slavers died without ever understanding they were under attack.
[Ambush: Successful]
[Enemy Formation: Broken]
[Enemy Morale: Dropping]
Slavers stumbled to their feet, grabbing weapons, spinning in place.
"Where—?!"
"Who—?!"
"Move to the fire! MOVE TO—"
An arrow took one in the throat mid-command. He fell gurgling into the snow.
Dogs recovered faster than men. One surged free, teeth bared, lunging toward a small, high sound at the corner of the camp—
A whimper.
Captive.
Through the hazy Command View, I saw a small spark cower in a cage lashed to a cart.
My chest tightened.
"Left," I whispered in the hut, voice barely audible.
On the battlefield, Baba turned left.
He planted his feet and thrust his spear.
It met the dog mid-leap, impaling it through the throat. The body slammed into him and slid off as he jerked the shaft free.
Link Strengthened: Sovereign ↔ Retainer (Baba Voss)
Effect: Minor predictive sync in combat.
We weren't sharing thoughts. But instinct and observation—my sight and his hearing—were starting to align.
The slaver leader finally found his voice.
"CIRCLE UP!"
His shout cut through panic. Three of the bigger slavers moved to his side, forming a loose ring, weapons raised.
"Listen to the feet!" he yelled. "Back to back! COUNT THE STEPS!"
He'd fought blind tribes before. He understood they relied on distance and sound. A circle with synchronized movement protected against attackers relying on stealth from multiple directions.
Against normal hunters, it might have worked.
But my tribe had Baba.
And now, in a small way, it also had me.
The hunters adjusted, their sparks slipping past the edges of Command View. Instead of circling and withdrawing, they closed in tight—pressing against enemy backs before striking.
One hunter locked an arm around a slaver's chest and drove a knife up under his ribs. Another clubbed a man from so close the weapon barely moved. A third hooked a leg and pulled, bringing his enemy down into the snow, stabbing before he hit.
Friendly fire became almost impossible.
The circle collapsed in on itself, choking on its own tactic.
Tactic Recognized: Anti-Circle Engagement
+Tactical Insight (Minor)
The leader was better than the rest.
He moved with controlled aggression, swinging a metal-headed mace in arcs that whistled through the wind. He used half-swings and feints, clanking the weapon off carts and posts to throw off hunters' ears.
Where others fought like drunk wolves, he fought like a butcher with practice.
He and Baba collided near the central fire.
Their weapons met with a crack that sent a spike of pain through our bond. The force staggered Baba, driving him back a step.
The leader pressed advantage, mace slamming low toward Baba's knee.
"Down," I breathed.
Baba dropped his weight. The mace glanced off his shoulder instead of shattering bone.
Pain flared hot and distant in my awareness. The bond carried echoes, not full sensation, but enough to make my own muscles clench.
The leader followed with a brutal upward swing.
"Back," I whispered.
Baba shifted back a half-step, the mace tearing through air where his jaw had been.
He couldn't see the weapon.
But I could see the whole fight—from higher up, in my mind's outline of the camp.
We weren't talking. He didn't hear me. But some part of him responded to the rhythm, the timing, the subtle shifts in wind and breath I focused on.
The spear and mace met again. Wood splintered. Metal rang. Snow scattered.
Then the leader made a mistake.
He committed.
He drew the mace all the way back for a killing blow, overextending, hips turning, shoulders wide open.
"Now," I whispered.
Baba didn't retreat.
He stepped inside the arc, letting the mace crash into his back. Something cracked—ribs, maybe—but he'd already driven the spear forward, angled up.
The point pierced the leader's gut, slid between ribs, and punched into his throat from below.
The man's scream cut off in a choking gurgle. He dropped the mace, clutching at the shaft, blood pumping between his fingers.
Baba twisted and yanked the spear free.
The leader fell.
[Enemy Commander: Eliminated]
[Enemy Morale: Collapsing]
The last slavers tried to flee. The hunters didn't let them. No prisoners this time.
Only the captives mattered.
The Rescued
When the last slaver fell, the camp fell eerily quiet.
Only the fire crackled. Only the wind moved.
Then came the small sounds.
Sobbing. Ragged breathing. The soft clink of chains when someone shifted.
Four sparks flickered near the carts.
Children.
The hunters moved toward the noises with care. No one lunged. No one shouted. Baba stepped forward first, lowering his spear and extending a hand.
"It's over," he said.
The children flinched anyway.
They squinted at the fire, unused to the brightness after days or weeks in covered cages. Dirt streaked their faces. Bruises hid under old blood and too-thin clothes.
Not sighted like us—just blind and hurt.
Baba didn't try to explain justice or vengeance. He untied knots, snapped leather, tore bindings, and lifted one girl into his arms like she weighed nothing.
"We go home," he said simply.
No prayers over the slavers' bodies this time.
They dragged them into a pile and burned them for mercy, not reverence. The smoke rose into the cold sky, carrying nothing worth remembering.
Battle Outcome: Decisive Victory
Enemy Dead: 17
Captives Rescued: 4
Hunter Casualties: 0 dead, 3 wounded (recoverable)
Rewards:
+Military Experience (Moderate)
+Territorial Influence (Local)
+Reputation: "Those Who Hunt Slavers"
Then a colder line appeared:
Consequence:
Faction: Valley Slavers → Hostile (High)
Probability of Organized Retaliation: Significant.
Higher-tier buyers and traders may take notice.
Of course.
Power never stays local.
The Return
They came back on the fifth day.
The whole village gathered at the tree line, breath puffing in small clouds, feet shifting anxiously in the snow.
Haniwa grabbed my hand and squeezed so tight my fingers ached.
"They're coming," I said.
She couldn't feel the Command View, but she trusted me. She didn't ask how.
The first spark crested the hill—Baba's.
Then we saw him for real, big and solid and tired, spear over his shoulder, furs stained in new places even after being scrubbed in snow.
Behind him walked the hunters.
Between them, holding coarse rope and each other, walked four children.
Two girls. Two boys. Thin, bruised, silent.
Collars of braided leather hung loose around their necks where someone had cut them.
The tribe broke into motion as one. Women rushed forward with furs and water. Elders reached out with rough hands and murmured old words.
The rescued looked stunned by gentleness.
They'd expected to be sold. Instead, they'd been stolen back.
The System chimed softly.
Population: +4
Developing Trait: Refugee Loyalty (Seed)
Future Impact: High potential for integration into key roles.
Good.
Saved lives often became the spine of new orders.
Father of the Future
That night, the tribe sat around the largest fire. Meat roasted. Bones crackled. Someone sang a low, old song about surviving winters before I was born.
Baba sat on a log, shoulders wrapped in furs, face unreadable. He wasn't celebrating like the others. Victory didn't sit light on him.
I waddled over and climbed clumsily into the space beside him.
He didn't look at me, but he turned slightly so I could lean against his side.
After a long time, he spoke.
"When your mother left," he said quietly, "I thought my duty was simple."
He flexed his scarred hands.
"Feed you. Keep you warm. Teach you to fight. Make sure you live long enough to become just another hunter like the rest of us."
He exhaled, breath curling in the cold air.
"But you are not like the rest of us."
He tilted his head toward the sounds of the living village—children laughing, rescued ones speaking softly, hunters telling the story of the slaver camp kill.
"You smell the world differently. You move differently. You… decide things."
He repeated Tullen's words from days ago without knowing it.
Who decides?
"You are not meant to find a place in this tribe, Kofun," he said. "You are meant to change this tribe."
The fire snapped between us.
The System stirred.
Ideological Shift: Recognized as Change-Bringer
Baba Voss Loyalty: Deepening
New Local Title: Father of the Future (unspoken, tribal subconscious)
Baba reached down and rested his hand on my head.
"Whatever you are," he murmured—"prince, curse, king— I will make sure you live long enough to find out."
It wasn't poetry.
It was an oath.
Retainer Bond Strengthened: Baba Voss
New Passive: General's Oath
• +Resistance to fear, exhaustion, and corruption for Baba
• Minor shared resilience for Sovereign
The first general of my future kingdom sat beside me, not knowing the word "kingdom," not knowing what "empire" meant.
But he knew this:
We had killed those who came to take our children.
And next time, we wouldn't just defend.
We'd be ready.