Perspective: Chief Roman & Chuka
The restaurant was quiet — too quiet for its reputation. Roman preferred it that way. Privacy was the only real currency left in a world built on exposure. The establishment was old, built before the automation wave — mahogany panels, candlelight, a pianist softly playing something classical and defiant in the corner.
Leila Danvers arrived exactly five minutes early. Punctuality was a form of respect, or perhaps caution. She wore a simple black suit, her eyes sharp, scanning every reflection in the glass walls before sitting.
"Chief Roman," she greeted, her tone guarded. "You don't strike me as a man who invites journalists to dinner."
Roman smiled faintly. "I don't. I invite people who make history."
She arched a brow. "And which am I to you?"
He leaned back, studying her. "That depends. You've shaken the world's narrative with your broadcast. Half of humanity now believes a god walks among them. The other half is ready to burn the world to prove them wrong. That takes… talent."
"I just told the truth," she said.
Roman chuckled softly. "Truth is never just the truth. It's a blade — and you've drawn it beautifully."
A waiter poured wine; she didn't touch hers. Her gaze stayed fixed on him, measuring his intent.
"I heard rumors," she said finally. "That your department funded the first relic expeditions. That you knew what was buried before anyone else did. So tell me, Chief — is the Atlantic rumor true?"
Roman's expression didn't change, though his eyes flickered with amusement. "You expect me to confirm that over dinner?"
"I expect you to deny it," she said, "so that I know I'm close."
Roman laughed, a low, restrained sound. "You remind me of myself twenty years ago. Hungry. Unafraid to chase what the world says is impossible."
"And now?" she asked.
He lifted his glass. "Now I buy what I can't silence."
Her eyes widened slightly — she understood. "You bought GNN."
He didn't confirm, didn't need to. The silence between them said enough.
"You don't want to silence me," she said slowly, realization dawning. "You want to control the story."
Roman leaned forward, voice quiet but edged with something magnetic. "Control is survival, Miss Danvers. Every empire that fell began with the loss of its narrative. You've stumbled into something vast, and if you stay reckless, you won't live long enough to see how deep it goes. But if you work with me — if you help me manage what's coming — you might survive the age that's dawning."
She studied him, her journalist's instinct warring with self-preservation. "And what is coming?"
He looked past her, out the window where the sea reflected the city's light. "The end of disbelief."
She shivered at the way he said it — not like a warning, but a prophecy.
When the dinner ended, she left with more questions than answers. Roman watched her car disappear into the foggy street below and then turned back to the window, alone again.
He tapped his comm-link. "Maro. The excavation in the Atlantic—status?"
"The team has reached the outer chamber, sir," came the response. "We've detected pulses — rhythmic, like breathing."
Roman's gaze darkened. "Seal the site. No transmissions until I arrive."
"Yes, sir."
He ended the call. For a long moment, he stood in silence, the faint reflection of the city lights dancing across his uniform. Somewhere in the depths of the ocean, something ancient was stirring, something that could tip the scales of the world again — and he would be there to claim it.
But even as he turned to leave, another power was moving, unseen, across a continent.
---
Part II — The Waking Step
Perspective: Chuka
Far away, in the mountains of Jos, Chuka stood beneath the midnight sky, the wind rustling the grass around him like whispers of unseen spirits. His mentor's compound lay silent behind him — its stone walls and sacred wards humming faintly with the energy of forgotten gods.
He had felt it the moment it happened: a thrum in his bones, a pulse beneath the earth, echoing through the stars themselves. The Atlantic relic had awakened.
Chuka closed his eyes. The divine current flowed through him like molten gold, steady and furious. He had spent months training to harness it — to shape the chaos within him into purpose. Every Divine Step he learned had drawn him closer to something ancient within his blood.
He could now feel the relics — sense their rhythm, their whispers, their hunger. The Pacific relic had revealed itself when his training reached its peak. That wasn't coincidence. It had answered him.
His mentor's words returned to him like thunder: "The relics are echoes of the Maker's breath. To touch them is to awaken destiny itself. But destiny does not come without consequence."
Chuka smiled faintly. "Consequence," he murmured, "is just another word for courage."
He had watched the news — the dictator glowing with the power of a relic, bending nations to his will. The arrogance of men who believed divinity could be owned disgusted him. The relics weren't meant for tyranny; they were meant to restore balance.
Now, he felt another call — a vibration deep beneath the Atlantic. His heart resonated with it, in tune like two notes of the same melody. He knew, somehow, that it was calling him.
He turned to his mentor's shrine, bowing once in respect. "You said I wasn't ready," he whispered. "But I can't wait for readiness. The world burns while we measure the wind."
He took a deep breath, letting the energy gather in his palms — light shimmering faintly around his fingers, his outline flickering in and out of the physical plane. His divine steps no longer faltered; he could feel space folding around him like silk.
He smiled, confidence radiating like dawn. "The last pulse gave me away," he said. "This one will take me there."
He raised his hands, his aura flaring gold. The relic's heartbeat pulsed again, deep beneath the ocean. He felt it. Matched it.
"Guide me, old one," he whispered to the unseen force that lingered in his blood.
The air around him cracked like lightning. The grass flattened outward in a perfect circle.
And in the blink of an eye — he vanished.
The wind carried only silence and the faint shimmer of light that lingered where he had stood.
Far beneath the Atlantic, where the exploration team's floodlights glimmered on ancient stone, a ripple of energy tore through the water. The divers froze — their instruments spiking wildly.
Then, from the shadows at the edge of the trench, a figure began to take shape.
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