Exhausted and warily hopeful, the ragged group followed their two spear-wielding guides deeper into the jungle. After days of unrelenting conflict—winged beasts, gigantic ants, and near-total exhaustion—the promise of a larger camp seemed almost too good to be true.

  As they rounded a bend, the foliage opened up to reveal a sprawling encampment. Unlike the makeshift settlements they had encountered before, this place boasted wide, cleared pathways where the undergrowth had been stripped away. Long rows of sharpened stakes ringed the perimeter, a crude but effective defense. The entire site showed signs of organized construction: fresh-cut timbers, piles of roughly milled planks, and rope-lashed frameworks marking future buildings.

  "Stay close," one of their escorts said, steel spear resting firmly in hand. Though his tone wasn't overtly threatening, it carried a note of authority that left little room for argument.

  They pressed on into the heart of the camp. System-bought tents dotted the area—sturdy, medieval in design, each with reinforced seams and heavy canvas flaps. Between them, men and women hustled about, bearing basic carpentry tools or battered smithing kits also procured from the System. Even with limited resources, the camp's inhabitants had managed to raise wooden structures along the bases of towering trees, some partially finished with plank floors and thatched roofs.

  Mira's gaze lingered on a row of wooden huts in progress, each anchored by thick wooden posts hammered into the soil. She glimpsed System-forged nails glinting where beams joined, an improvement over the usual vine ties and wooden pegs. A few small forges glowed red near the center of the encampment, manual bellows huffing as workers heated metal—likely for weapon-making or additional building supplies.

  "They're building a full settlement," Darin murmured, watching a line of workers haul timber and raw materials. Aera gave a slow nod, torn between admiration and caution. Elias, ever watchful, studied the patrols circling the perimeter: men and women with System-upgraded spears, short swords, or even simple chainmail vests. All rudimentary but far sturdier than the improvised gear Jace and the others had used.

  "Plenty of resources," Elias said, his voice low, "and a lot of labor. This must have cost them a fortune in points."

  Joran, pale and leaning on Theo for support, grimaced. "Let's hope they spent some on hospitality, too," he joked weakly. No one laughed.

  Their guides led them to a large open space near the center of the camp—an earthen courtyard of sorts. Several half-built wooden cabins stood in a crescent, and behind them, a raised platform covered by a wide canvas awning served as a focal point. A handful of guards, wearing hardened leather armor and carrying iron-tipped spears, flanked the platform.

  "That's where you'll meet the King," announced the second guide, pride coloring his voice. "Follow."

  The group exchanged wary glances. Jace tightened his grip on his spear, while Mira hovered close to Joran, mindful of his fragile state. Aera and Darin scanned the milling crowd. The camp bustled with dozens—if not hundreds—of residents, all sporting better equipment than the typical frantic survivor. Many paused to stare at the battered newcomers, curiosity and caution clear in their eyes.

  They ascended three wooden steps to the platform. Crudely carved chairs sat around a central table covered in maps—brownish parchment scrawled with notes or rough sketches. One of the chairs stood more elaborately carved, sporting hammered metal brackets and a thick cushion—still medieval in design, but clearly set apart. A few other guards in tough leather and riveted plates stood watch.

  "Kneel," ordered a burly guard. His spear angled forward, just enough to convey seriousness.

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  Elias's jaw tensed, but he gave a slight nod, motioning his companions to comply. One by one, they lowered themselves to one knee. Joran struggled, leaning heavily on Mira, who whispered words of reassurance.

  From behind some kind of canvas partition, a tall, broad-shouldered figure emerged.

  Dressed in a fitted leather tunic reinforced with iron plates, he bore a long, slightly curved sword at his hip—its hilt wrapped in strips of tanned hide, the blade's heavy pommel hinting at formidable impact. His presence was immediate and powerful, resonating through the space with a tension that reminded the newcomers of Kurai.

  A hush settled over the gathered crowd. Even the sentries stood at tighter attention, their hands poised near their spear hafts. This was Sefu Okonjo.

  He paused, letting his dark gaze sweep over the kneeling survivors—Jace, Mira, Theo, Elias, Joran, Aera, and Darin—their clothes torn, eyes weary yet unbroken. Next to them, the two escorts bowed their heads in respectful greeting.

  Sefu exhaled slowly, and in that moment, the air felt thick, as though charged with Aether. Not unlike the oppressive wave that accompanied Kurai's, however in the moment it felt like their bodies seemed to pause as if an invisible hand had ordered them to stop. This man was strong, perhaps even stronger then Kurai. That notion seemed absurd, yet they couldn't deny it completely.Stepping onto the wooden platform, Sefu bowed his head fractionally, a gesture of dignity rather than humility. He spoke in a resonant, measured tone:

  "Welcome to my camp," he began, voice resonant and steady. "I am Sefu Okonjo, once a prince, now a ruler by right of strength and faith."

  He allowed his dark gaze to sweep over the kneeling survivors, their exhaustion palpable. Silence stretched, as though Sefu was gauging their reactions. Then, in a smooth gesture, he raised one arm to encompass the sprawling encampment around them.

  "In my homeland, our gods tested us in many ways, forging us into who we must become. This place…" he gestured at the bustle of tents, half-built huts, and clearing work done by his followers, "…has seen fit to grant me a transcendent task: to guide those who hail from distant lands—and distant times. Fear not," his tone deepened with conviction, "for I am up to this trial. Though it seems the future has lost sight of the might and wisdom of the Orisha, I shall reenact such devotion and bring salvation to all who once again heed their guidance."

  A faint current of aether rippled in the air, emanating from Sefu like a subtle pressure. Elias, still on one knee, felt the hairs on his arm prickle—this man held power similar to Kurai, and its presence weighed on those who knelt before him. There was a fervor in Sefu's words that hovered between genuine piety and zealous ambition.

  He turned his focus to Joran, whose bandaged side trembled with each shallow breath. "You are hurt," Sefu observed, voice softening only slightly. "We have a healer's hut. You shall receive care there. "His eyes slid to Mira, Theo, and Aera, reading their mixture of weariness and apprehension. "And as for the rest of you," he continued, "I offer shelter, and I ask in return your loyalty. My domain grows in strength each day, and I will not abide those who seek to sow chaos or doubt among my people."

  Jace's grip on his spear tightened, but Elias inclined his head in calm acceptance. "We've had our fill of chaos, my lord. If you grant us safety, we'll return the favor in earnest."

  A flicker of approval—glimmered in Sefu's dark eyes. "Good. You have arrived in a time of gathering storms. Even I, whom the gods have charged with leadership, must consolidate power swiftly. The beasts, the terrain, the uncertain souls in this land… They must be subdued for order to reign."

  An uneasy shift passed through the survivors. Order, or conquest? The question roiled in each mind, but none dared voice it. They sensed that Sefu's godlike conviction would not be easily swayed.

  Lowering his sword hand, Sefu lifted his chin. "Stand," he commanded. "And be unafraid in my presence. You shall rest first, then we speak of your duties. I would hear all that you have witnessed in this realm… and how best to shape it under the true gods' designs."

  One by one, Jace, Mira, Theo, Elias, Joran, Aera, and Darin rose. A guard stepped in to guide them off the platform, gesturing toward a timber-walled hut not far from where a simple open-air forge and a series of crude wooden racks indicated the camp's workspace.

  As they walked, Sefu stood silent, posture unwavering. The faint pulse of his Aether Core seemed to intensify, a manifestation of something he hadn't quite grasped intertwined with raw power. In his mind, he saw the shining potential of this savage realm—a place where he would demonstrate his gods' might and usher all survivors beneath his dominion.

  May the gods see my deeds, Sefu thought with iron resolve. And may these newcomers learn the path to salvation, or perish in defiance.