The gods didn’t rescue runners. So why had they caught him mid-fall, cradled him in light, and deposited him in a temple that defied the very ws of existence?

  Just moments ago, Afobi had been running—legs burning, fueled by adrenaline and a primal fear that cwed at his throat—escaping the relentless pursuit of traffickers with mirrored eyes and silent, hovering drones. Then the world had bent, twisted into impossible angles. Folded like fabric. And swallowed him whole, pulling him into a vortex of the unreal.

  The fall wasn’t a drop. It was an unraveling of everything he understood about reality.

  He tumbled through spirals of golden light that stretched into infinity, his limbs weightless and unmoored, his senses overwhelmed by a deafening silence that pressed against his eardrums like a physical force. Wind vanished, leaving him suspended in a vacuum. Gravity surrendered its relentless pull, allowing him to drift and spin without direction. Space itself crumpled around him like soaked parchment steeped in sacred ink, the familiar dimensions of the world folding into impossible geometries, the distant hum of the city's energy grid fading into nothingness.

  His only anchor in the chaos was the frantic rhythm of his own heartbeat, a frantic drum against the silence. And the insistent heat of the mask, pressed against his chest, a comforting ember in the disorienting void.

  A memory flickered: sky-cars zipping past his rooftop garden, sleek and untouchable.

  Then came the light.

  Not fire, which scorched and consumed. Not the sun, which blinded and demanded obeisance. This was gold without heat, radiant without pain, a light that felt like memory made flesh, solidifying into existence before his very eyes.

  It caught him, slowed his chaotic descent, swaddled his filing limbs in a gentle embrace, like ash settling into silk, each particle of light a caress.

  His feet touched ground—though it didn’t feel like ground as he knew it. More like a profound presence, a consciousness that resonated beneath his soles. A silent hum of anticipation, like a circuit board awaiting activation.

  And when he opened his eyes, he breathed in eternity.

  He stood in the House of Masks.

  A temple outside the confines of time and space, a sanctuary built on the bones of forgotten ages and powered by an energy that felt both divine and technological.

  Above, the vaulted ceiling stretched into infinity, a swirling canvas of nebue and gaxies where consteltions shifted by will, not orbit, their light cold and ancient. Giant Yoruba masks, each one a window into a god's soul, floated mid-air, suspended in the luminous void: some carved of aged wood, their surfaces cracked and worn by time, others of scarred bronze that gleamed with an inner fire, and still others of polished bck stone that seemed to absorb the very light around them, their surfaces etched with intricate glyph-like circuits. Their expressions shifted subtly as he looked, morphing with an unsettling fluidity—grief contorting into rage, joy melting into curiosity, awe hardening into pride. It was as if they were alive, their emotions echoing his own.

  Pilrs of impossible geometries spiraled upwards, defying gravity and logic, their surfaces wrapped in the gnarled embrace of ancestral vines that pulsed with a faint, inner light. Etched into the pilrs were glowing blue glyphs of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation), the power that flowed through the veins of the universe, the same energy that powered the sky-cities and the most advanced technology. The air itself hummed with this power, thick with the scent of ozone and the dust of ages, a metallic tang that prickled at his skin.

  They whispered in a tongue he didn’t know—yet somehow understood, the words filtering directly into his mind, bypassing his ears and resonating directly within his skull. A chorus of ancient voices, like the rustling of a thousand dry leaves, or the chanting of priests long since turned to digital code, echoing across the ages.

  The air was thick with memory, heavy with the weight of countless lives lived and lost within these walls. Not his alone, but that of generations stretching back to the dawn of humanity. Every breath Afobi took carried echoes of ritual and sacrifice, grief and triumph, war and creation, each sensation a phantom touch on his skin, a whisper of forgotten knowledge in his mind.

  A fleeting image: his mother's hands, calloused and strong, repairing a broken circuit board with the same reverence she used to offer prayers.

  The floor shimmered like sunlight rippling through the surface of water, the light refracting in shifting patterns that seemed to reveal fleeting images beneath its surface. Each step Afobi took echoed—not in sound, but in memory, each footfall triggering a cascade of images and emotions that washed over him in waves.

  He was walking on history itself, the triumphs and tragedies of his ancestors imprinted into the very fabric of this pce, a history that felt both alien and intimately familiar. A history that felt richer and more complex than the one he knew in the streets of Ajegunle.

  His voice came out small and hesitant, swallowed by the vastness of the temple. “Where… am I?”

  No comm-bead to crackle with static. No city hum to drone its ceaseless compint. No sky to offer a familiar point of reference, no sky-cars streaking across the horizon. Only an all-encompassing silence, broken only by the whispering pilrs and the echoes of the past.

  His mind reeled, struggling to reconcile the impossible reality before him with the gritty, chaotic world he knew. Had he died? Was this some eborate hallucination? Had he stumbled into one of the fantastical stories griots whispered at dusk, tales of gods and spirits and realms beyond human comprehension?

  A bitter thought: would the elite in the sky-cities even believe a pce like this existed?

  Then, the floor beneath him pulsed with a slow, deliberate rhythm, a heartbeat that resonated with his own.

  A pedestal bloomed from the ground like a backward tree, its trunk and branches formed of starlight and polished stone, the two materials intertwining in an impossible fusion. Atop it rested an orb of pure darkness, veined with golden light that pulsed in perfect time with his heartbeat, its surface smooth and cool to the touch.

  The mask at his chest fred with an intense heat, the carved wood glowing with an inner fire that spread through his veins, making his skin tingle with anticipation.

  Hot. Alive. Hungry.

  His breath caught in his throat, a primal instinct warning him to flee. He stepped back instinctively, his hand rising to touch the mask, seeking a familiar anchor in this alien pce.

  Old stories, whispered warnings from the past, cwed their way to the surface of his mind—tales of portals that judged the heart, Orisha that tested the unworthy, spirits that devoured the souls of those who dared to trespass. Griots had warned with solemn faces and trembling voices: “Touch what remembers you, and it may never let go.”

  He reached toward the mask, his fingers brushing against its smooth surface. It pulsed against his palm like a living thing, a captive heart beating beneath the wood.

  This was real. More real than anything he had ever experienced.

  His fingers trembled, torn between fear and an irresistible curiosity.

  Then came the voice.

  Ancient. Aching with the weight of ages. Etched into his bones, bypassing his ears and resonating directly within his skull:

  “The Child of Smoke has awakened. The ancestors rise in remembrance.”

  He spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs, searching for the source of the disembodied voice. “Who said that?!”

  The floating masks turned toward him, their gazes following his every move. Slowly. Deliberately. With an unnerving sentience that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

  The pedestal cracked, fissures spreading across its surface like lightning branching across the sky.

  And from the shimmering distortion above it, a figure coalesced, solidifying from the void.

  Its robe rippled like gaxies drowned in oil, an endless expanse of darkness punctuated by the faint glimmer of distant stars, yet woven with threads of shimmering technology that hinted at a power beyond comprehension. Its face was obscured by a golden mask, smooth and unreadable, reflecting no light and revealing no emotion. But etched into its brow, glowing with an eerie intensity, was a single word, ancient and powerful:

  à??.

  No footsteps echoed on the floor. No breath disturbed the still air. Yet behind it, the very air shifted and distorted, like unseen pages of history turning, whispering tales of forgotten empires and fallen gods, of technological marvels and spiritual truths intertwined.

  “You were not caught,” the voice echoed again, deeper this time, not in the room, but inside his mind, resonating with a power that shook his very soul. “You were summoned.”

  The Witness.

  The name formed unbidden in his thoughts, a bel that felt both ancient and terrifyingly appropriate, and yet… strangely familiar.

  “You were chosen, Afobi.”

  He took a step back, his instincts screaming in protest. “I didn’t choose anything! I was just—running for my life, trying to survive in that…” He trailed off, the word "city" feeling inadequate to describe the sprawling chaos of Neo-Ajegunle.

  The Witness raised a hand, its gesture both commanding and impossibly gentle.

  And a vision burst into the air between them, shimmering with an unsettling crity—

  Neo-Ajegunle afme with unnatural blue fire that licked at the crumbling hab-blocks, the sleek sky-cars of the elite burning alongside the makeshift homes of the poor. Portals tearing open in the sky, jagged rifts in reality that pulsed with an unholy light, their energy disrupting the city's power grid. Masked warriors, their movements too fast and too precise, engaged in midair combat with beings of pure energy, their battles tearing through the fabric of the city. The sky cracked like broken gss, shards of reality falling to the earth, crushing everything beneath. People screaming in terror, their voices swallowed by the chaos. And a single child, small and alone, standing amidst the destruction, a storm of ancestral spirits swirling around him like a malevolent whirlwind.

  “The world chose you,” the Witness intoned, its voice devoid of emotion yet heavy with the weight of prophecy. “As it always does, when bance fractures, when the à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation) is threatened.”

  The masks stirred, their silent gazes intensifying. The air in the temple grew heavier, charged with an oppressive energy that pressed down on Afobi’s chest, a feeling he’d only experienced in the deepest, most polluted parts of Ajegunle.

  “You carry the spark—the Divine Essence lost across bloodlines and broken rites, diluted by time and forgetfulness. The world has many Disciples, each wielding a fragment of power, their strength tied to their ability to manipute technology…”

  The Witness leaned forward, its voice lowering, drawing breath like a gathering storm, the silence in the temple amplifying its words.

  “…but only one Divine Disciple rises when the Ajogun stir in their chains, when the old ways must be remembered to save the new.”

  Ajogun.

  Spirits of destruction. Chaos incarnate. Entities of shadow and fire, their names whispered in childhood warnings, their return a harbinger of the end of days, a threat that even the sky-cities couldn't ignore. Entities never meant to escape their ancient prison.

  Afobi remembered one story in particur, whispered by a trembling griot in the flickering light of a dying fire. A tale of a foolish boy who tried to wield power not meant for him, who touched a divine object and vanished into the earth, his screams echoing with the tormented voices of the damned, his body dissolving into circuits and code.

  The Witness gestured to the pulsing orb on the pedestal.

  Afobi hesitated, his heart pounding in his ears, his mind a battlefield of conflicting impulses.

  His instincts screamed: Run. Flee this pce of impossible wonders and ancient horrors. Return to the familiar chaos of Ajegunle, even with its dangers and injustices.

  But something older, something deeper, held him rooted to the spot.

  His mother’s lulby, a melody of strength and resilience, a song that blended ancient rhythms with the hum of the city's power grid. Taiwo’s reckless loyalty, a bond forged in the fires of the Scrap Quarter, his belief in Afobi a constant source of strength. Kehinde’s fiery spirit, a beacon of defiance in the face of despair, her passion for justice a burning fme.

  He took a trembling step forward, drawn by an irresistible force he couldn’t name, a sense of destiny that felt both terrifying and inevitable. Then another.

  The orb pulsed harder, its light intensifying, bathing the temple in a golden glow that felt both alien and strangely comforting.

  One breath. Then another. He fought against the fear that threatened to consume him, focusing on the steady rhythm of his heart, the warmth of the mask against his skin, the memory of his mother's unwavering faith.

  He reached out a hesitant hand, his fingers trembling as they stretched towards the pulsing light.

  And touched it.

  It wasn’t pain, though a jolt of energy surged through his body, making his muscles clench, like a system rebooting. It wasn’t pleasure, though a wave of euphoria washed over him, blurring the edges of his vision, as if his consciousness was expanding beyond the confines of his physical form.

  It was recognition. A homecoming. A merging of two destinies, his own and something far grander.

  The orb sang to something inside him—something hidden, ancient, waiting for its awakening. A dormant power that resonated with the very fabric of his being, a forgotten heritage stirring within his blood, a connection to the à?? that flowed through the universe.

  And the world broke.

  Visions—fast, burning, overwhelming his senses:

  —A shattered mask sinking into a pool of sacred water, the ripples spreading outwards like a digital pgue, corrupting everything they touched.

  —Golems torn apart on crimson fields, their cy bodies crumbling into dust, their metal limbs twisted and broken, their power sources extinguished.

  —A girl wrapped in lightning, her face contorted in grief, crying his name with a desperate urgency that echoed through the static of a failing comm-system. Onome?

  —An Orisha, their face veiled in shadow, weeping beneath a fractured moon, their tears falling like molten gold, each drop burning a hole in the fabric of reality. Yemoja?

  —A doorway sealed with blood and breath, the glyphs carved into its surface writhing with malevolent energy, its frame constructed of a technology both ancient and terrifyingly advanced.

  —A ugh—maternal, wild, divine—echoing through the void, a promise and a warning, a sound that felt both familiar and alien. His mother's? Yemoja's? The voice of àiyé (ah-yeh - Earth) itself?

  He staggered back, his head spinning, his body trembling with the force of the visions. It wasn’t just what he saw—it was what remembered through him, the weight of ages pressing down on his soul, the echoes of a future both glorious and terrifying.

  And then the vision broke, leaving him breathless and disoriented, his mind struggling to process the fragments of a reality that felt both real and impossible.

  When he opened his eyes, the pedestal was gone, vanished as if it had never existed, leaving only the memory of its touch and the lingering hum of power in the air.

  And in its pce—

  They stood.

  Six towering forms, their presence filling the temple with an awe-inspiring power that resonated with the very core of his being.

  àiyé'm? (ah-yeh-moh - Children of the Earth).

  Golems.

  Cy-skinned and humanoid, their bodies vast and powerful, each one a testament to the artistry and power of a forgotten age, yet powered by a technology that hinted at a future beyond comprehension. Their forms were veined with glowing glyphs of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation), the divine essence pulsing beneath their skin like rivers of starlight. They weren’t statues, cold and lifeless. They breathed, their cy chests rising and falling with a slow, deliberate rhythm. They waited, their silence heavy with anticipation, their energy humming with a power that felt both ancient and technologically advanced.

  One stepped forward, its massive form moving with surprising grace, and knelt before Afobi, its head bowing in a gesture of ancient reverence, its movements precise and calcuted, like a complex machine executing a perfectly programmed sequence.

  “We await the Shaper.”

  Each golem radiated a distinct presence, a whisper of divinity that resonated with a different aspect of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation):

  —One cracked with red lightning that danced across its cy skin, illuminating intricate circuitry etched beneath the surface, thunder rumbling within its chest, a reflection of Sango’s fiery spark and the city's power grid.

  —Another shimmered with interlocked iron bands that shifted and moved with an inner purpose, a testament to Ogun’s forge and his mastery over metal, its form resonating with the hum of a thousand machines.

  —One wept mist and shimmered with the iridescent glow of the ocean depths, its form fluid and ever-changing, reflecting the holographic advertisements of the sky-cities, a manifestation of Yemoja’s boundless tide and the interconnectedness of all life.

  —Another spun faint breezes around its body, the air swirling with unseen currents, a whisper of Oya’s breath and her dominion over the wind, a force that felt both natural and artificially generated.

  —Two remained still and dormant, their glyphs dim and inactive, their forms hinting at powers yet to be awakened, their purpose shrouded in mystery.

  Afobi stepped closer, drawn by an irresistible curiosity that overcame his lingering fear.

  Awe, profound and humbling, wrapped around his ribs, squeezing out the st vestiges of panic. Fear melted into wonder, a sense of destiny taking root in his soul, a feeling that he was finally connecting to something rger than himself, something that spanned both the ancient past and the technological future.

  He pced his hand on the nearest golem’s chest, the cy surprisingly warm and smooth beneath his touch, yet resonating with a faint vibration, like a powerful engine idling.

  Warmth. Not the coldness of metal. Not the distant hum of code.

  A waiting soul, ancient and powerful, stirring from its slumber, yet possessing a complexity that hinted at a technological consciousness.

  The golem turned its head, ever so slightly, its massive form acknowledging his touch, its eyes glowing with a newfound awareness, its gaze both ancient and strangely digital.

  The Witness’s voice echoed again, softer now, devoid of its earlier power, tinged with a hint of mencholy and a sense of urgency:

  “They are not yet yours to command. But they have chosen to walk beside you, to lend you their strength and their wisdom, to bridge the gap between the old ways and the new.”

  Another vision flickered through Afobi’s mind, a glimpse of the golems evolving through time: from terracotta guardians to towering figures forged of living bronze, their bodies gleaming with power, to obsidian steel behemoths glowing with the light of distant stars and wielding technologies beyond human comprehension, each transformation reflecting his choices, his failures, his growth.

  “Warriors. Guardians. Kin,” the voice whispered, the words resonating with a profound truth that settled deep in Afobi's heart, a sense of belonging he had never known in the fractured world of Neo-Ajegunle.

  Afobi turned back to the Witness, his voice filled with a mixture of awe and trepidation. “What am I supposed to do?”

  The Witness extended a hand, its gesture both an invitation and a command.

  “Remember.”

  Light surged outwards from the Witness, engulfing Afobi in its embrace, a blinding wave of energy that felt like a return to the source, a merging with the flow of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation).

  His mother’s voice followed him into the light, warm and reassuring, a constant presence in his life, a song that blended ancient lulbies with the hum of the city's energy grid:

  “You are never alone, Fo. Not now. Not ever.”

  The floor beneath him spiraled open, the stone and light twisting into a vortex that threatened to pull him back into the world, a digital wormhole opening into the unknown.

  The golems encircled him, their massive forms forming a protective barrier, their energy fields shimmering. The masks turned in unison, their silent gazes following his descent, their expressions shifting from solemnity to a flicker of something akin to hope. The temple pulsed with a final, resonant hum, its energy reaching out to touch him one st time, imbuing him with a strength he didn't know he possessed.

  “This is only the beginning,” the Witness whispered, its voice fading as Afobi plunged into the swirling light. “When next you awaken, the trials shall begin.”

  As the light consumed him, the temple's voice echoed, a promise and a warning that resonated with the city's relentless pulse:

  “We remain. Until the echoes return.”

  Neo-Ajegunle.

  He hit the ground behind a market stall with a jarring thud that sent pain ncing up his spine.

  Air whooshed from his lungs, leaving him gasping for breath. The cacophony of the market assaulted his senses, a brutal contrast to the temple's serene silence. The scent of oil, synthetic yam, and ozone, thick and pungent, smacked him in the face, a wave of reality washing over him with overwhelming force. Neon signs buzzed and flickered. Vendors shouted their wares, their voices harsh and grating. Repulsor-powered tuk-tuks, their energy fields sputtering, zipped past overhead.

  “èmí burúkú!” someone shouted, their voice ced with fear and superstition. Evil spirit!

  He coughed, his head spinning, his eyes wide and disoriented. The world felt too loud, too bright, too chaotic after the ethereal beauty and profound stillness of the temple. Something sacred had been carved into his senses, altering his perception of reality, and now the mundane world felt… wrong, distorted, like a poorly rendered copy of something real.

  He stood, his limbs shaky and uncoordinated, his body struggling to readjust to the familiar pull of gravity.

  A flickering sign overhead, its neon tubes sputtering and dying, glitched and flickered: ?jà à?? (oh-jah ah-sheh) – No gods. No credits. No trouble. The irony of the sign's message was not lost on him.

  He gnced around, his heart still pounding in his chest. No golems to offer their protection. No floating masks to offer their silent wisdom. The temple and its wonders had vanished as abruptly as they had appeared, leaving him stranded in the familiar chaos of Neo-Ajegunle.

  But deep within, beneath the confusion and disorientation, he felt them. A presence, ancient and powerful, yet strangely familiar, like a forgotten program running in the background. Watching and waiting.

  He looked down at his left palm.

  The glyph of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation), a faint spiral of darkness edged with gold, glowed faintly beneath his skin, a brand of his destiny and a key to a power he was only beginning to understand.

  He touched the mask at his chest, his fingers tracing its familiar contours, seeking reassurance and a connection to the world he knew.

  “Where did you go?” he whispered, his voice barely audible above the market's din.

  The wind stirred around him, a gentle caress that seemed to whisper secrets on the edge of hearing, a hint of the temple's vastness in the city's narrow streets.

  And deep within the alley’s shadow, unseen by the bustling crowd, one of the dormant glyphs on his skin shimmered with a faint, inner light, its pattern resembling a complex circuit diagram.

  A silent promise. A hidden power waiting to be unleashed. A destiny intertwined with both the ancient past and the technological future.

  He wasn’t the same. The temple had changed him, marked him, awakened something within him that could no longer be denied.

  And this time—

  He wouldn’t run. He would face whatever was coming, armed with the knowledge of his heritage and the promise of the golems at his side, a bridge between two worlds.

  The Witness's command echoed in Afobi's mind: Remember. What do you think he is meant to recall from the past? And what technological wonders and ancient dangers do you foresee the trials will unleash?