The journey back was smooth.
Aside from a few encounters with the long-spined beasts Chen Xu had named Arrow Boars—which yielded some extra meat—nothing hindered their march.
Following the familiar route, the column of ape-men moved swiftly through the jungle. After three hours of steady travel, dusk had begun to bleed across the horizon when they finally emerged from the forest and reached the foothill of the small mountain.
Pushing through the last thicket, Chen Xu led the group to the summit.
He ordered the ape-men to wait there while he gripped the rope and descended into the cave below.
At once, the ten ape-men who had stayed behind emerged to welcome him.
A quick inspection showed their diligence: they had gathered piles of firewood and plucked an impressive amount of wild fruit. The smell of roasted meat still lingered—the carcasses of several wild dogs, cooked and ready.
Chen Xu's gaze swept across the cavern. In the far corner lay the results of the day's labor: freshly made bamboo spears stacked neatly against the wall. There were hundreds now—rough, but serviceable.
He picked one up, flexed it against his knee, and nodded in approval.
Crude craftsmanship or not, it was sturdy enough to kill.
Satisfied, he laid his map aside in a dry niche and gave a sharp command.
The ape-men began hauling out some of the roasted meat and bundles of firewood to rekindle the fires atop the hill.
The cave, though spacious, could house no more than thirty at most.
Any more, and not even Chen Xu's low standards for comfort would be met.
Even in this primitive age, he refused to live surrounded by filth and stench.
Now, however, the tribe's population had swelled to sixty—thirty newcomers from the conquered valley, ten warriors, and the rest hunters and gatherers.
The cave could no longer contain them. Space had become the tribe's most urgent problem.
And food—always food.
Though their last hunts had filled the larders, those supplies had been meant for a dozen mouths, not sixty. Even with the fresh spoils of today's Arrow Boars, the stores would not last two more days.
New hunts were needed. Soon.
When the others had carried the meat and torches up to the summit, Chen Xu lingered below for a moment.
He knelt by the cave fire, shielding it from the wind as he smothered the bright flames, leaving only embers hidden beneath ash—dark fire, ready to awaken again when needed.
He would not abandon this cave.
Its position was perfect—defensible, sheltered, hidden.
In his mind, he had already chosen it as the tribe's sacred ground, the heart of what might one day become a kingdom.
Straightening, he stepped to the cave mouth and looked down at the forest below.
The moon was rising, a pale haze of silver over the trees. His eyes gleamed.
"That forest at the foot of the hill…" he murmured. "It's perfect."
He traced the valley in his mind—the ribbon of river flowing nearby, the fertile ground, the promise of fish and fresh water.
"If we clear it and make it our territory, we can build a true settlement there—start fishing, expand our food sources… Yes, that would solve much."
But his brow furrowed.
"If Number One and the ape leader avoided that area, it must be occupied by something powerful. A dominant species. I'll have to plan carefully."
For a long while he stared eastward, toward the faint shimmer of the river beneath the moonlight. Then he made his decision. His eyes burned with resolve.
He seized the rope and climbed up once more, dragging a roasted wild dog slung over his shoulder.
At the summit, a great fire already blazed at his command.
The scent of roasting meat drifted thick through the night air, and the newly joined ape-men—gaunt from hunger—stared with wide, glistening eyes.
Oil popped and hissed in the flames.
Had their leader not warned them, they might already have lunged forward like beasts. But in this new tribe, no one touched food without the Fire God's word.
When Chen Xu appeared, every gaze turned toward him—half reverence, half desperate hunger.
He smiled faintly, tossed the wild dog carcass to Number One, and began handing out the wild fruits they had gathered earlier.
Distribution was simple and ruthless: the strong took more, the weak less.
Chen Xu himself claimed a tenth; his warriors followed, then the women, then the old and sick who received only what scraps remained.
No one protested.
Unknowingly, under the silent law of the Fire God, hierarchy had already taken root.
When the meat was finally cooked, Chen Xu oversaw the division himself.
Tonight marked the tribe's official founding—a night worth celebration.
Perhaps it was nostalgia for his lost civilization, or perhaps just a moment of indulgence, but he decided to be generous. For once, the food was shared almost fairly.
Sixty ape-men feasted beneath the stars.
They did not all eat their fill, but no one went hungry.
Laughter and howls echoed across the mountaintop.
For the first time in memory, hope glimmered in their eyes.
That night, the tribe slept soundly.
The steep cliffs shielded them from beasts, and the roaring fires drove away the darkness.
After the feast, Chen Xu roasted a few eggs on a stone slab, ate quietly, then sat atop a massive boulder, gazing at the horizon.
While the others sought their mates and lost themselves in primal joy, he closed his eyes and began to cultivate.
His breathing slowed; his inner energy stirred faintly in his veins.
Though he now stood above the tribe, he knew too well how fragile his power truly was.
A pack of crazed wild dogs—or worse, the mysterious Tyrant Saber-tooth—could end him in a heartbeat.
And in this world, a wound meant death.
There were no herbs, no medicine, no mercy.
He had crossed into this age by chance, and he refused to die before he had even begun.
He thought of the golden crystals—the alien relics pulsing with otherworldly light.
He had absorbed two, and their presence confirmed the truth: something beyond the stars was watching.
If he could not grow strong enough before their arrival, he would be little more than prey.
The others were ignorant.
They lived, they feared, they followed.
But he understood too much.
Knowledge, after all, was both power—and fear.
And so he cultivated with silent fury, pushing his weary body through each cycle of breath and focus.
His inner energy crawled forward, barely moving, but he refused to stop.
In this Stone Age world, strength was the only law; it was his foundation, his weapon, his reason to survive.
As the fires burned low and the stars dimmed, Chen Xu sat motionless against the dawn wind.
Among the ape-men, his silhouette glowed faintly in the firelight.
To them, he was no longer just a leader.
He was something greater.
The Fire God.
And that name, born of fear and awe, began to burn itself into their hearts—
one ember at a time.