MOUGBE took the chicken with a firm hand. With his other hand, the knife began to dig into the earth with a slow, methodical movement. Each strike landed with a dull thud, regular as a dying heartbeat.
"Always dig for the earth," he said in a voice that allowed neither doubt nor pity. "The blood returns to the earth. That is the order."
ZE-RAK watched, fascinated despite himself. The hollow took shape: wide, shallow, like a cup offered to the ground. MOUGBE grabbed the chicken, holding it head down over the hole.
The knife slid, cold, under the animal's throat.
Something strange happened then for ZE-RAK. Even before the blood gushed out, he perceived a change in the air around the animal. A vibration that accelerated, becoming almost frantic, then suddenly calmed when the blade did its work.
The blood flowed in a dark stream, gleaming for a moment under the last light of day. MOUGBE tilted the carcass over the pit. The warm liquid traced paths through the feathers before disappearing into the earth.
The earth seemed to suck it in. A breath, as if the ground was swallowing the offering. The metallic smell rose, sharp and alive. Several apprentices looked away. MOUGBE did not allow it:
"Watch. The blood must flow. Always. As long as it remains in the flesh, the meat is impure. Blood nourishes. It returns to where life comes from. If you are afraid to see the truth, then you are not ready."
He covered the pit with earth and asked the apprentices to come forward one by one to touch the carcass, to feel the heat escaping from it, the life slowly fading away.
They filed past. Some seemed impassive, others visibly disturbed. A young one trembled slightly, and MOUGBE placed his hand on his shoulder—heavy, but reassuring.
"Fear is natural. But respect must be stronger than it."
ZE-RAK waited for his turn, this strange sensation growing within him.
When the moment finally came, he stepped forward and placed his hand on the still-warm carcass.
The sensation was immediate and violent.
It wasn't like with the spear. Where the weapon had whispered ancient memories to him, the dead animal sent him chaotic, burning images. Tingling ran over his scalp, sparks in his mind that formed luminous filaments barely a centimeter long. These threads began to vibrate, and a new rhythm emerged - different from the spear's melody, wilder, more primal.
ZE-RAK pulled his hand back suddenly, an expression of disgust on his face.
"Dammit, ZE-RAK, can't you even be a little more serious in moments like this?" he grumbled internally. "You're starting to play games in your head again."
He felt sick, convinced his mind was playing tricks on him again. He went back to his seat, trying to chase away these sensations.
MOUGBE continued, pointing to the pit.
"Whoever learns today must understand this: when you give life to hunger, you seal a pact. You repay the debt to the soil. Do not waste. Do not defile."
A NDALA woman arrived at the training ground, carrying a pot of boiling water.
"Here is the water, hunter MOUGBE," she said with the respect due to an intermediate-rank hunter.
"Very well," replied MOUGBE.
He plunged the chicken into the pot. The steam rose like a funeral mist, enveloping his face, blurring his features.
"Now, we will see how to prepare the meat. Pay close attention. First, we pluck the feathers."
His powerful fingers pulled out the feathers by the handful. Then he threw a handful to the apprentices.
"Take them. Get your hands dirty. This is not a game, it is a heritage."
ZE-RAK caught a feather in mid-air. It was still warm, and a strange sensation ran through his fingers - like a last echo of life, a memory of flight and freedom.
MOUGBE then took the knife. With a precise gesture, he opened the animal's belly. A fetid heat rose, filling the air with a metallic, organic smell. The entrails slid out of the carcass, falling into the dust with a wet sound.
"Here is the liver. Strong and nourishing. Here is the heart. It gives its strength to whoever eats it. The gizzard, we keep it."
He pointed the blade at the intestines, swollen and shiny.
"And that... that must never be pierced. Touch it by mistake, and the flesh is soiled."
A shiver ran through the circle. One of the youths averted his eyes, but the man barked:
"Look! If you can't stand this, you don't deserve to eat what comes from death!"
Silence fell again, heavier than the earth.
MOUGBE washed the carcass, scrubbed every corner, then held up the cleaned chicken like a trophy.
"Remember. Every time you hold a knife, it is a pact: to take life out of necessity. We do not kill for nothing, nor for pleasure. If you forget that... then you are nothing."
A cold wind crossed the yard. The youths no longer dared to speak. Their gazes, once innocent, had hardened.
ZE-RAK looked at the cleaned carcass, and this time, the sensation was different. Where he had perceived terror and chaos earlier, he now felt only a strange calm, as if the animal had accepted its fate, as if death itself could be peaceful when given with respect.
That evening, they understood: killing and preparing an animal was not just a technique. It was a rite.
An indelible mark that, for ZE-RAK, was much more than a simple hunting lesson.