The forest held its breath.
Ciprian-8 crouched beside his ancestor, gripping the iron knife so tightly his knuckles whitened. It felt impossibly small compared to Ciprian-1’s spear — but it was all he had.
Through the trees, he finally saw them:
Ottoman scouts.
Ten, maybe twelve.
Moving in a predatory formation — quiet, coordinated, armed.
Their armor wasn’t the bright, ceremonial kind shown in modern holofilms.
It was patchwork: leather, metal plates, fur, cloth.
Their eyes were sharp.
Their blades were real.
This wasn’t a simulation battle with safety parameters.
This was the kind of fight his ancestors had survived or died in.
Ciprian-1 leaned close, whispering into his descendant’s ear:
“A man fights with his mind first, his hand second.”
Another whisper of movement.
Three scouts veered toward them.
Too close.
Ciprian-1 grabbed Ciprian-8’s arm and pulled him low behind a fallen log.
The ancestor’s voice was barely audible:
“If we run, they will track us.”
“If we hide, they will find us.”
“So we strike first.”
Before Ciprian-8 could protest, Ciprian-1 moved — silent, explosive.
He lunged from the shadows, spear thrusting with terrifying precision.
The first scout didn’t even scream.
Ciprian-1’s spear drove into his throat, dropping him instantly.
The second scout swung a curved blade.
Ciprian-1 parried with the spear’s haft, then rammed his shoulder into the man’s chest, toppling him. The third scout raised a bow—
Ciprian-1 didn’t look back.
He shouted:
“Now, if you are my blood!”
Ciprian-8 realized with horror:
The third scout was aiming at him.
His body froze.
The world narrowed to the glinting arrowhead.
The forest spun.
And something inside him whispered:
Move.
He dove sideways just as the arrow hissed past his cheek. He felt it slice skin — sharp, burning — but he didn’t stop.
The scout reached for another arrow.
Ciprian-8 hurled himself forward, tackling the man to the ground.
They rolled violently, the man delivering hard elbows into Ciprian-8’s ribs.
Ciprian-8 gasped in pain.
The world blurred.
He felt the scout’s hands closing around his throat.
Instinct took over.
He swung the knife wildly — not elegant, not trained, just desperate.
The blade caught the scout’s forearm.
The man screamed and recoiled.
Ciprian-8 rolled on top of him, knife raised — then hesitated.
This was real.
Too real.
The scout’s eyes widened — he knew he had lost, but he didn’t beg.
Ciprian-8’s hand shook.
And then—
A shadow loomed above them.
Ciprian-1.
He spoke without emotion:
“If you leave him alive, he will return with ten more.”
Ciprian-8’s breath hitched.
The knife felt impossibly heavy.
Ciprian-1’s voice hardened:
“A man protects his kin.
Not with softness.
With certainty.”
Ciprian-8 couldn’t do it.
His hand trembled violently.
Ciprian-1 reached down, grabbed the scout’s hair, and slit his throat in one swift, practiced motion.
Blood spilled into the soil.
The forest went silent again.
Ciprian-1 wiped the blade on the scout’s tunic and handed it back to Ciprian-8.
“Hold it properly.
You grip like a frightened sheep.”
The ancestor turned and walked away, as if the violence meant nothing.
As if it were normal.
Ciprian-8 remained kneeling, shaking.
His stomach twisted.
His heart hammered.
Ciprian-1 didn’t look back when he spoke:
“Your hands tremble.”
Ciprian-8 forced himself to stand, still breathing hard.
“I’m not used to killing.”
Ciprian-1 snorted.
“No one is.
Some of us simply learn faster.”
He stepped closer, eyes narrowing as he studied his descendant.
“You say you come from the future.”
“Yes.”
“In your time… does a man forget how to defend himself?”
Ciprian-8 raised his chin, trying not to break under the scrutiny.
“In my time, we don’t fight like this. We don’t have to.”
Ciprian-1 laughed — a deep, harsh sound, almost pitying.
“Then your time is weak.”
“Knowledge without hardship.
Comfort without vigilance.
Life without blood.”
He pointed his spear at Ciprian-8’s chest — not to threaten him, but to make a point.
“If my blood truly survives in you…
you must earn it.”
He turned away.
“More scouts will come.”
“You have until nightfall to stop trembling.”
Ciprian-8 exhaled, wiped the blood from his face, and steeled himself.
For the first time, he understood:
He wasn’t just learning about his ancestor.
His ancestor was judging him.
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