The hum would not stop.
Even after the smoke had cleared and silence crept over the ruined containment chamber, the sound remained — low, rhythmic, ancient. It wasn't just around him anymore; it was within him, pulsing beneath his ribs like a second heartbeat.
Chuka staggered to his feet. His vision swam, the world shimmering faintly gold around the edges. The air felt thick, alive, as though the dust and wind were watching him. Every breath carried heat, every step left behind a faint shimmer in the debris.
He stumbled toward the main exit of the Jos facility, past slumped guards and sparking consoles. He didn't know if they were alive, and part of him didn't want to check. He only knew one thing — he had to get out.
When he reached the blast doors, the power was gone, the locks melted open by the same surge that had freed him. Beyond them, morning light poured in — bright, pale, and cruel after the darkness of the lab.
Outside, Jos lay quiet beneath the dawn. Red dust swirled in the dry wind, carrying the scent of rain that hadn't yet fallen. The plateau stretched before him — ancient, scarred, and familiar.
He took one step into the open and dropped to his knees, gasping.
Images struck him — not memories, but visions.
He saw stone altars burning with blue fire. He saw men and women with golden eyes kneeling before towering figures made of light. He saw rivers turning gold, earth trembling as voices chanted words that made the sky itself bend.
And then, a single phrase echoed through it all — steady, commanding, carved into his mind like thunder:
> "The Maker's blood shall seal and awaken."
Chuka clutched his head, crying out. The visions stopped. The plateau came rushing back. His skin was slick with sweat, his veins still glowing faintly.
He looked at his reflection in a shard of broken metal — eyes no longer brown but flecked with gold.
"What are you turning me into?" he whispered.
The answer came as a whisper that felt like breath against his ear:
> "You are not becoming. You are remembering."
He spun around. No one. Only the red earth and the whistling wind.
The hum grew louder again — a vibration that seemed to come from the ground itself. Beneath his boots, he saw faint lines of light running through the soil like buried veins. They spread outward, connecting to distant points on the horizon.
When he touched the ground, the earth responded — a single pulse of warmth traveling up his arm. The relic's mark glowed faintly beneath his palm, the same sigil that had appeared on the Amour's surface.
And suddenly, he knew. The relic wasn't an object. It was part of a network — a chain that spanned continents, linking every fragment of the old world together.
He stood slowly, his breathing steadying. The fear that had gripped him moments ago began to fade, replaced by something else: purpose.
"They thought they could contain it," he muttered. "Contain me."
In the distance, the faint whine of helicopter rotors broke the silence. He turned toward the horizon and saw black dots approaching — Roman's retrieval teams, sweeping low over the ridges.
No time.
Chuka began to move, slipping into the ravine behind the facility. He followed the hidden paths carved by old miners decades ago, his feet sure despite the uneven rock. Every now and then, he could feel the hum guiding him — faint pulses tugging him away from danger, leading him toward something unseen.
After nearly an hour, he reached an abandoned mining outpost nestled in the rocks — corrugated roofs half buried by dust and vines. He ducked inside the largest structure, breathing hard.
As his eyes adjusted to the dimness, he realized he wasn't alone.
A figure sat near the back, half-hidden by the shadows — an old man, wrapped in tattered cloth, eyes gleaming faintly in the dark.
"I've been waiting," the man said quietly.
Chuka froze. "Who are you?"
The old man smiled, revealing teeth worn to the color of stone. "A keeper of what your people forgot. You opened the seal, didn't you?"
Chuka hesitated. "I didn't mean to. The Amour— it reacted to me."
The man rose, his movements slow but deliberate. "It didn't react. It recognized. You carry the blood that built them."
Chuka frowned. "Built? You mean the Amours were made, not found?"
The man nodded. "Long before your world was born, your ancestors forged vessels to trap what the gods had left behind — memory, power, soul. They sealed them in stone and iron, praying the bloodline would remember how to wake them when the world forgot its origin."
The hum inside Chuka grew louder. "The bloodline…"
The man's gaze deepened. "Yes. The Maker's blood. You're the first to awaken it in over two thousand years."
Outside, the whir of helicopters grew closer. The sky over the ravine darkened as drones began to circle.
The old man stepped forward and pressed a carved stone into Chuka's palm — the same sigil as the one glowing beneath his skin. "They're coming for you. Follow the old paths. The others will find you when the time is right."
Chuka looked at the stone, then back at the man. "Others?"
But the old man was already fading — his form breaking apart into dust and golden light that scattered through the air.
When the last spark vanished, only the whisper remained:
> "Find the heart beneath the Plateau. There, the truth sleeps."
Chuka slipped the stone into his pocket and bolted for the ravine just as Roman's men descended.
He didn't look back.
He couldn't.
The hum inside him grew stronger with each step, no longer a whisper but a call — ancient, insistent, alive.
And as he disappeared into the wild valleys of Jos, the first storm clouds gathered above the plateau, swirling with a faint golden light.
Somewhere deep underground, something vast stirred — answering the blood that had finally awakened.
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