Zento: The Prehistoric journey

Chapter 1: The Tradition

The chief of the Ragas tribe stood before the gathered villagers, his voice commanding yet calm as he addressed the young and the non-hunters. Around him, children sat cross-legged, their wide eyes fixed on the elder's every word. He spoke of the hunt—of survival, strength, and the knowledge necessary to bring down prey.

"The stronger the beast," he said, his deep voice rumbling like distant thunder, "the greater the honor."

A young boy, no older than four winters, stood up and asked, "What beast did you hunt?"

The chief's weathered face softened into a smile. He walked to a nearby rock, lowered himself onto it, and stroked his graying beard. His eyes, half-closed, turned upward as if seeking the memories in the sky.

"I hunted a beast that flew higher than the clouds," he began. "Its wings spanned the heavens, and its beak was sharp as a spear. Its teeth, like rows of knives, could tear through anything."

The children leaned forward, their awe mirrored in the faces of the adults nearby. As the chief recounted his tale of bravery, the sun began its descent, bathing the village in a warm, golden glow.

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By the time his story ended, the sun had slipped behind the horizon, and the hunters had returned, their laughter and the clinking of tools filling the air. The villagers gathered around a massive bonfire in the center of the village. Tonight is a sacred night. The night when young aspiring hunters take vows to hunt their chosen prey.

The bonfire crackled, its flames casting long shadows over the assembly. The hunters sat in four distinct rows, their positions reflecting their rank within the tribe. To the left of the fire sat the elders, wise and stoic. To the right were two of the best hunters, their presence commanding respect.

Behind the hunters stood the chief, his imposing figure silhouetted against the firelight. Before him, the young ones who had come of age stood nervously, waiting for their turn to step forward. Those who had delayed their choice for the past four years could wait no longer. They had to name their prey tonight—or risk being shunned by the village.

One by one, the young stepped forward, each naming the beast they would hunt and the rank they aspired to achieve. The crowd murmured its approval or surprise as each choice was made.

When the last of the eligible youth had spoken, the chief addressed the younger children, offering them the chance to choose their prey early if they wished. As expected, none moved. Parents often advised their children to wait until they were trained and ready.

The chief nodded, prepared to move to the next part of the ceremony. But then, a figure rose.

A ripple of shock swept through the crowd. A child, one far too young, was walking toward the fire.

"Ragna," the chief said, his voice tinged with surprise.

Gasps and whispers filled the air as the villagers recognized the boy. Behind the chief, a woman cried out in protest, but the chief raised his hand, silencing her. A hunter in the second row scowled, his frustration evident.

Everyone was quiet while staring at this child walking to the first line. All eyes were on Ragna as he stepped closer and closer to the center of the gathering. The villagers started murmuring as he got closer to the chief.

Ragna, the orphan. The boy whose father had abandoned his hunting group and brought disgrace to his name and his village.

Undeterred by the murmurs, Ragna stepped forward, his small figure dwarfed by the hunters seated before him. The firelight danced on his face, highlighting the determination in his eyes.

"I choose..." He paused, taking a deep breath. Then, with his gaze fixed on the stars above, he declared, "The Mountain Beast!"

The world seemed to hold its breath.

A stunned silence fell over the gathering. The chief's hands, which he had been clasping behind his back, trembled visibly.

The Mountain Beast. A creature of legend, recorded only once in the ancestors' chronicles. Twice the size of the chief's hut, with tusks like jagged spears and a powerful trunk capable of uprooting trees. It was said to have destroyed their ancestors' home, forcing them to flee and rebuild far from its territory.

For a child, this child, to choose such a beast was unthinkable.

Ragna turned and walked to the side of the first line, sitting among the others who had made their vows. Though tradition forbade open ridicule, the villagers' disapproving stares bore into him.

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The ceremony continued. Hunters began choosing their students, most selecting their children or kin. Some promising youth were chosen by multiple hunters, their bright futures apparent. Others were passed over, but still, they had hope.

No one approached Ragna.

The boy sat alone, his gaze steady, though his heart ached. He had expected this rejection, knew it was likely, but the sting of isolation still surprised him.

Finally, the chief stepped forward. By tradition, if a child had no teacher, they could choose to either wait four years for another chance or attempt the hunt on their own...

Everyone was again, staring at Ragna because no one had chosen him. Ragna hardly talked to anyone in the village and knew no one so to him, it was expected that no one would choose him. he did feel slightly disappointed though but he couldn't understand why.

Ragna stood and walked toward the chief. His steps faltered briefly, but when he reached the center of the gathering, he lifted his chin.

"I hunt alone. I learn hunting alone," he declared, his left fist pressed against his chest.

The chief studied him, searching his face for any trace of doubt. What he saw instead was a fierce determination, raw and untamed. After a moment, the chief nodded and placed a hand on Ragna's shoulder.

"So be it," he said quietly.

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As the festival began, the villagers mingled, celebrating the choices of their youth. Mothers and fathers proudly spoke of their children's new mentors, while others looked on with envy.

Ragna stood apart, watching from the shadows. The joy and laughter of the others made his solitude all the more apparent.

Later, in the orphan quarters, Ragna prepared for bed. The image of the families celebrating lingered in his mind, stirring a familiar ache. He thought of his father, a figure blurred by time but forever linked to the story of the Mountain Beast.

Lying down, Ragna stared at the ceiling. His mind buzzed with thoughts of training and preparation, but exhaustion soon claimed him. His eyelids grew heavy, and sleep overtook him like a hunter claiming its prey.

To be continued.