Afolabi tumbled through a spiral of golden light, limbs weightless, the wind swallowed by silence. Space didn’t open—it crumpled around him like paper soaked in sacred ink. There was no ground. No sky. Only the pulsing rhythm of his own heartbeat—and the heat of the mask pressed against his chest.
Then came the light.
It wasn’t fire. It wasn’t sun. It was gold without heat, radiant without pain, like memory given form. It wrapped around him, softened the descent, and slowed time itself.
He didn’t crash. He landed, like ash settling into silk.
When his feet touched the surface, he opened his eyes.
And breathed in eternity.
He stood in a temple that made no sense. The ceiling stretched into infinity—above him, constellations moved across the airless dark, shifting not by orbit but by intention. Massive Yoruba masks hovered mid-air, faces carved from stone, wood, and metal—expressions changing every few seconds. Pride. Grief. Rage. Joy. And something else… curiosity.
Pillars spiraled in impossible geometries, glowing with inscriptions that pulsed in soft blue à?? — divine energy; the sacred force of creation. Some were wrapped in ancestral vines. Others whispered in a tongue he didn’t know but somehow understood.
The ground wasn’t stone. It was light. Hardened, rippling, glowing like golden water frozen in the moment before it could ripple. Each step Afolabi took echoed—not in sound, but in memory.
The air smelled of smoke, ocean salt, and incense burnt under moonlight. But it wasn’t just scent. It was presence. As though something—or someone—was breathing with him.
“Where... am I?” he whispered.
No comm-bead buzz. No drone hum. No city static.
Just silence, thick and sacred.
A pulse rose beneath him. The floor shimmered. A pedestal grew from the ground like a tree blooming in reverse. Upon it sat a black orb veined with gold, throbbing in sync with his heartbeat.
The mask around his neck burned hot.
He gritted his teeth and clutched it.
A voice—deep, ancient, felt not heard—whispered into his bones.
“The Child of Smoke has awakened. The ancestors rise in remembrance.”
He stumbled backward. “Who said that?!”
No answer. Only the masks rotating slowly above.
Then the pedestal split open.
From within rose a figure—tall, cloaked in a robe darker than oil, shimmering like a void that had chosen to wear skin. Its face was a golden mask, featureless, smooth. Only one marking was etched across its brow: the glyph for à?? — divine power.
It smelled like ancient rituals. Of blood and salt. Of palm wine spilled in reverence.
Its steps made no sound.
But behind its silence came the soft turning of pages. As though somewhere, a great book was being read aloud by time itself.
“Do not fear, Afolabi,” the voice said again, inside his mind now—like thunder remembered in a dream.
“You were chosen. And you were sent here.”
He shook his head. “No. I fell. I was running. I didn’t choose this.”
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
The figure raised a finger.
Above them bloomed a vision—Neo-Ajegunle, but different. The buildings burned with blue fire. Portals tore across the skyline. Masked warriors fought in the clouds. The sky cracked like glass.
“The world chose you. As it always does when balance shatters.”
Masks rotated above, watching. The pedestal pulsed with waiting power.
The Witness’s voice deepened—measured, reverent, like a priest delivering a final prophecy.
“Many wear the Orishas’ mark. But you carry the original spark—the divine essence lost across generations.”
Afolabi’s mouth dried. The golden glyph on the Witness’s brow shimmered, pulsing like a heartbeat.
“The world has many Disciples,” the voice continued.
“But only one Divine Disciple can rise when the Ajogun — the chaotic spirits of destruction — stir from their prisons.”
Silence followed. But it wasn’t empty—it was waiting. Watching. Weighing.
The Witness said nothing more. It simply gestured toward the orb.
Afolabi hesitated.
The temptation to run surged up like a wave. His instincts screamed for escape.
But something held him still.
His mother’s voice: “?m? mi, maa gbagbe ?ni tí ìw? j?…” — My child, never forget who you are.
Taiwo’s unshakable loyalty.
Kehinde’s laugh, bright under dim lanterns.
They were his anchors.
He stepped forward.
As he reached for the orb, pain surged—no, not pain. Recognition. The orb called to him, not with sound, but a silent hunger—like it was reuniting with a piece of itself long lost.
His fingers brushed the surface.
And the world broke open.
Images burst into his mind like lightning striking water:
—A burning mask falling into a sacred river.
—Golems made of stone, shattered on crimson sand.
—A girl cloaked in lightning, screaming his name.
—An Orisha weeping blood beneath a dead moon.
—A great door carved into the heart of the earth, pulsing like a heartbeat.
—And laughter. Crackling, divine, terrifying. A woman’s voice riding the wind: “We remember.”
He gasped and collapsed.
When he awoke moments later, he was still in the temple.
His vision swam, but the golden pedestal was gone. In its place stood six massive clay figures—Aiyé’mo — Children of the Earth. Their forms were humanoid, carved from divine soil, etched with sacred glyphs glowing with faint à?? — divine life force.
Afolabi’s breath caught in his throat.
He took a step back. His heart thudded in his chest. “What… are you?”
One of them stepped forward and knelt.
“We await the Shaper.”
Each golem bore a distinct aura:
-
One’s chest cracked faintly with red heat — the spark of Sango’s storm.
-
Another’s legs shimmered with iron tracery — the craft of Ogun’s forge.
-
One dripped mist that evaporated midair — the whisper of Yemoja’s tide.
-
A fourth pulsed with spiraling lines of wind — Oya’s breath of change.
Two others stood farther back, still and dim. Their glyphs were dull. Their forms unfinished—dormant.
He approached slowly, mesmerized, his hands trembling. They towered above him, silent but aware.
He reached out and pressed his fingers to the chest of the nearest one. A warmth, almost like a heartbeat, answered.
These weren’t machines. They were presence. Legacy. Waiting.
And they were his.
The Witness’s voice returned, quieter now, as if receding.
“They are not yet yours to command. But they will follow. Protect. Grow with you.”
“As your soul deepens, so shall their form.”
A new vision struck—of future battles. Of golems transforming from clay to bronze, to iron, to a black metal that shimmered like starlight. Each bearing a divine trait. Each forged by Afolabi’s journey.
He turned to the Witness. “What am I supposed to do?”
A hand extended.
“Remember.”
A rush of light. A whisper of his mother’s voice—“You are never alone. Not now. Not ever.”
The floor beneath him spiraled with golden resonance. The golems stepped into position, surrounding him as the temple pulsed with rising energy.
Stars shifted above.
“This is only the beginning,” the voice echoed one last time.
“When next you awaken, the trials shall begin.”
As the light swallowed him, the temple spoke:
“We remain. Until the echoes return.”
Neo-Ajegunle.
He woke with a gasp, face-down behind a market stall.
The stench of fried oil and engine smoke flooded his nose. Vendors screamed and scattered, clutching charms and QR-coded rosaries. Someone shouted, “èmí burúkú!” — Evil spirit!
He sat up slowly, coughing.
The world around him felt sharper. Brighter. Every sound rang clearer. The hum of neon. The rustle of fabric. The wind speaking.
A flickering sign buzzed above:
“?jà à?? – No gods. No credits. No trouble.”
Market of Power.
It glitched as he walked past, sparking blue, like even the machines recognized something had changed.
He looked around.
No golems.
Just shadow and smoke.
He clutched the mask around his neck and whispered, “Where did they go?”
But no answer came.
Only a sudden gust of wind—cool, silent, unnatural—brushing past his ears like a whisper of things to come.
And still, the echo of his mother’s voice lingered.
He looked down at his palm.
The glyph of à?? still glowed—faint, but undeniable.
He didn’t know what was coming.
But this time—he wouldn’t run.