Chapter 9: The Shattered Village

He stood frozen until he saw them—clan warriors surrounding her, laughing as they raised their weapons.

“NO!” he cried.

They beat her mercilessly. Logs. Rods. Stomps. Her body collapsed beneath the weight of their cruelty, and all he could do was watch, powerless, as the light in her eyes dimmed. The sound of cracking bones echoed louder than the screams.

Her blood mixed with the dirt as her lips trembled, forming the final words: “Live… Mamu.”

Then a voice roared from the crowd.

“There’s another one! A rat hiding in the bushes!”

Their eyes locked on him.

Mamu’s heart exploded in panic. He turned and ran.

He ran with tears blinding his vision and a scream stuck in his throat. The arrow came from behind—whistling death. It grazed his shoulder, tearing into his flesh and painting his side red. The pain was unbearable, searing like fire—but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t.

He leapt over roots, stumbled through thorny undergrowth, slipped down rocky slopes. He could hear them behind him—yelling, laughing, cursing. He didn’t look back. He didn’t dare.

His legs gave way at last, and the world faded into darkness.

When he woke, the sky above was gone. Replaced by a wooden cage. His body throbbed with pain—shoulder torn, face swollen, ribs cracked. His arms and legs were tied. Every breath felt like breathing glass.

Around him sat others—young, broken, wide-eyed. Children. Some crying. Most silent.

He tried to move, but the chains bit into his wrists. A rough hand grabbed his hair.

“You little bastard,” a voice snarled. The raider’s boot slammed into his chest.

“You made us chase you! Think you’re special?!”

They beat him. Again. And again. He didn’t scream anymore—his voice was gone. His body stopped fighting. He lay curled, barely conscious.

There were no bandages. No mercy. They let him bleed. Let him suffer. Every day, they watched him. Mocked him.

He wasn't a prisoner.

He was a trophy.

For four days, no food passed his lips. Only the rainwater he licked from the cracks in the cage kept him alive. He didn’t know what kept him breathing. Maybe his mother’s last words.

Then, one cold morning, the sky turned gray with storm clouds. One of the raiders approached and threw something through the bars—a biscuit, old and moldy. Rock hard.

“Eat. You’ll need your strength,” the man said with a smirk.

A small cup of water followed. Barely enough to swallow.

That same day, the cages opened. Chains clinked. Whips cracked. The children were dragged out and lined up like cattle.

Beyond the hills, the sound of war drums echoed.

“The Chama Clan approaches,” one of the guards said. “Time for you all to earn your keep.”

They were handed crude weapons—spears too heavy, blades too dull. No armor. No instruction.

Just fear.

Mamu held a splintered spear in his shaking hands. His arms burned, his stomach twisted with hunger and terror.

From across the bloodstained field, the soldiers of Chama came charging—fierce, fast, screaming like demons.

And the world blurred into chaos.

To be continued…