Night had fallen over Jos Plateau, but the air thrummed as if the earth itself were restless. Wind hissed through the stones, carrying an electric scent that prickled against Chuka's skin. He knelt on the edge of the ancient training ground, sweat glistening on his brow as he struggled to hold his balance mid-step.
The Divine Steps — a technique said to blur the space between spirit and matter — were far more than a dance. Each motion shifted reality by a fraction, bending gravity, light, and time around the one who mastered them.
But tonight, something was wrong.
Each time Chuka took a step, the earth answered back — too forcefully. Energy leapt from the soil like a heartbeat under his feet. His breath quickened. The sigils beneath his training circle blazed with gold fire.
"Again," said Kalu, standing several paces away beneath the old baobab tree. His voice carried that calm authority that could slice through panic.
Chuka gritted his teeth and obeyed. He inhaled, stepped forward — and the world lurched.
For an instant, his surroundings folded inward. The sky twisted. Mountains rippled like waves. He saw flashes — an ocean trench, a glowing orb, a man's silhouette standing before it, hands raised in command. Then the vision shattered, and he fell to his knees, gasping.
Kalu was at his side in an instant. "Easy," he said, pressing a hand to Chuka's shoulder. A faint blue light rippled from his palm, grounding the violent surge around them. "You pushed too far."
Chuka coughed, trembling. "I saw… the sea. Someone— he was speaking to the light. It answered him."
Kalu's gaze sharpened. "Describe him."
"Tall. Sharp features. His presence felt… wrong. Like the air bent toward him."
The old man frowned, eyes drifting toward the horizon. "Then the second relic has awakened."
He stood slowly, the beads around his neck glinting in the moonlight. "You felt the link because your blood carries the same signature — the echo of the Maker's breath. When one relic stirs, the others resonate. But this… this tremor feels forced."
Chuka rose unsteadily. "Forced how?"
Kalu's voice lowered. "By someone attempting to bind what was never meant to be bound."
He moved to the center of the circle and touched the glowing sigils. The patterns pulsed weakly, reacting to the distant resonance echoing through the planet's crust. "The Pacific relic is crying out," he murmured. "And the power that seized it doesn't belong to the Maker. It belongs to men."
Chuka swallowed. "Then someone else found it."
Kalu nodded gravely. "Yes. And if they're meddling with forces from the deep, the balance is unraveling faster than I hoped."
The wind shifted suddenly, cold and sharp. The baobab leaves trembled as a low hum rolled across the plains. The sigils in the ground flickered violently, forming a spiral — the same one Chuka had seen in his vision.
He staggered backward. "It's happening again!"
Kalu extended both arms, chanting under his breath. The words were old, older than the plateau itself, drawn from the Maker's language that few still knew. The air thickened, and the spiral's glow dimmed.
But something fought back.
From deep beneath them came a pulse — strong, deliberate. The ground cracked. Lightning burst across the horizon, white-gold and silent. For a moment, Chuka saw beyond time again — glimpses of the trench glowing, of men in lab coats screaming as machines burst into flame. And far away, a shadowed figure — the dictator — placing his hand on a relic that seemed to look back at him.
Then Chuka's vision shifted inward.
He saw himself standing in darkness, surrounded by hundreds of golden eyes. A voice whispered — the same one he'd heard faintly during his first encounter in the cave.
"He seeks to command what he cannot comprehend."
Chuka spun around. "Who are you?"
"You are the key that unbinds the chains forged by greed. The relics are not weapons, Chuka Nnaji — they are memories of creation."
The darkness rippled, and suddenly, light poured through his chest like molten gold. He gasped, falling backward as the world around him reformed into reality.
Kalu caught him again, his expression grave but proud. "You touched it," he said. "The relic recognized your presence."
Chuka struggled to speak. "I felt… something ancient. It said I was the key."
Kalu's eyes gleamed with quiet certainty. "Then the Maker's design is awakening within you. The relics respond to bloodlines of truth, not power. Remember that when the world begins to hunt you."
Chuka looked up at him, confusion and fear mixing in his eyes. "If that man— whoever he is— has already taken control of one relic, what chance do we have?"
Kalu placed a hand over Chuka's heart. "The relics were never meant to serve those who command. They serve those who remember."
As he spoke, a faint shimmer of light emanated from Chuka's chest — the same hue as the Pacific relic's pulse. It rose into the night, vanishing among the stars.
Kalu turned his gaze westward. "The world believes the Maker is silent," he said softly. "But the echoes are growing louder. And soon, every relic — every bearer — will have to choose which side of the echo they stand on."
Chuka clenched his fists, feeling the strange hum of energy in his veins. "Then teach me," he said. "I need to be ready before the next one awakens."
The old man smiled faintly, eyes gleaming with both pride and sorrow. "You already are, my boy. You just need to remember how to walk between worlds."
Far beneath them, in the depths of the earth, the sigils flared one last time — and then fell silent, as if holding their breath.
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