The air was thick with smoke, firelight flickering against crumbling buildings as tear gas swirled through the chaos. Sirens wailed in the distance, but they didn’t come to help. They never did.

  Obinna moved like a shadow between scattered debris, his breath steady despite the madness around him. His hoodie was soaked through with sweat and ash, torn at the shoulder, a ripped protest banner still clutched in his left hand. His eyes scanned the street ahead—barricades overturned, protesters scattered, some bleeding, others dragging each other toward safety.

  Then he saw her.

  A little girl—maybe six—crying beside a broken streetlight, too stunned to run. A tear gas canister rolled past her foot, still hissing.

  Obinna didn’t hesitate.

  He lunged, covering the distance in three strides, scooping her up as the canister popped and sent white clouds screaming into the air. He turned his back to it, shielding her with his body, eyes burning.

  Gunfire cracked.

  He turned—just in time to see the muzzle flash from across the square. A soldier. Not panicking. Aimed. Intentional.

  He couldn’t move. Couldn’t think.

  The bullet hit centre mass.

  Everything slowed.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  The pain should’ve come first, but it didn’t. What came first was the sound—like thunder breaking underwater. And then… light.

  A glowing interface blinked into the corner of his vision.

  [SYSTEM BOOT: REVENANT SEED DETECTED]

  [DIVINE ACCESS GRANTED]

  Obinna collapsed, but he didn’t hit pavement. Instead, he fell through.

  He woke on stone.

  It wasn’t the heat of Lagos anymore. It was cold here—ancient, echoing, and wrong in ways his brain couldn’t name. He opened his eyes to see symbols swirling overhead, carved into a massive stone dome that shimmered with its own blue glow.

  “Am I dead?”

  The words escaped his throat without sound. They echoed anyway.

  He sat up. His clothes were different—robes instead of his hoodie, woven with gold lines and tribal patterns. His skin glowed faintly along old scars he didn’t remember earning.

  A voice echoed in his head.

  [WELCOME, OBINNA UCHIDA. TRIAL COMMENCING.]

  A figure emerged from the far side of the shrine. It walked slowly, staff tapping the stone with a rhythm like a heartbeat. Its mask was cracked, its body wrapped in ceremonial shrouds. But it wasn’t alive.

  [WARDEN SPIRIT: JUDGE OF ENTRY]

  Obinna stood on instinct. His hands sparked. Literally.

  Stormlight danced across his fingertips. His heartbeat synced with the hum of the shrine.

  The Warden attacked.

  He dodged the first strike, stumbled through the second. He wasn’t trained—not really—but he was fast, desperate, and more alive than he’d ever felt.

  Blow after blow traded between them until a HUD flared across his vision:

  [STORM PULSE UNLOCKED]

  He didn’t think. He let it go.

  Lightning burst from his chest, lashing out in every direction. The Warden howled and cracked, vanishing in a shimmer of ash and symbols.

  Obinna dropped to one knee, panting.

  The shrine pulsed again. This time, the far wall opened.

  A door. Light spilling through. A jungle beyond.

  Obinna looked down at his hands. Still crackling. Still glowing.

  He stood up, stepping forward.

  Not dead. Not alive.

  Something in between.

  The gods were watching.

  TO BE CONTINUED…