It was afternoon in an era long lost to time.
Lake Chad, a fractured mosaic of land and water in the present, was far marshier in this distant past. It resembled a vast lake in the midst of transformation, as though it were slowly surrendering itself to the inevitability of becoming a swamp.
Shallow, muddy waters stretched endlessly, glistening beneath the stark afternoon sun.
Then the surface rippled.
Shockwaves tore through the water in violent pulses. Mud and silt erupted as furious sounds echoed across the wetlands… blows landing with sickening force, crushing bone and tearing flesh. The impacts were desperate, frantic, as though one combatant were fighting against an unkillable enemy.
After a time, the violence ceased.
The stagnant water slowly settled, its surface smoothing as though nothing had disturbed it at all.
From the sprawling lakeside bushes emerged a lone man.
His massive obsidian frame caught the sunlight, scattering it in reflections. His entire body was marred with deep gashes, with blood flowing freely down his limbs. Ivory gauntlets encasing his hands were smeared thick with crimson, the blood already beginning to darken and clot.
As he fully stepped out of the swamp, a curious weapon became visible… an axe of unusual craftsmanship, hung loosely against his back.
M'Khoro was breathing heavily, gasping as his chest rose and fell in uneven rhythm.
And yet, his face bore unmistakable exhilaration.
He had survived his hardest battle yet. No… he had won. And the weapon strapped to his back was proof of that victory.
He paused for a moment, steadying himself, and thoughtfully scanned his surroundings. The scattered patches of land within the shallow lake bore unmistakable signs of a fierce struggle; trampled reeds, broken earth, blood staining the mud.
Then, without hesitation, he turned and deliberately walked into the wilderness.
Birds cried loudly from the dense canopy above as he advanced. He moved like a force of nature; unyielding and unstoppable. Thorny bushes were swatted aside with little effort, and young saplings were crushed beneath his feet as though they were nothing more than grass.
As he continued onward, his blood began to clot. One by one, the numerous gashes across his body slowly closed, and the flesh knitted itself back together.
He was pleased with his triumph; there was no denying that.
But alongside the satisfaction, unfamiliar emotions stirred within his battle-hardened heart. Reverence. Respect. Motivation. And something else… something he did not yet have a name for just yet.
As he carved his way through the wilderness, his thoughts drifted to how he should present the great trophy he had acquired.
How would he show it to his mother?
She was the shaman, and the leader of their village.
Soon, the trees thinned, revealing a clearing ahead. Beyond it lay a settlement: numerous homes crafted from packed mud, reinforced with wattle-and-daub frameworks, each crowned with tall, conical thatched roofs.
As M'Khoro approached, he noticed an unusual sight. Most of the villagers were gathered around a large central structure. Concern crept into his expression.
That building was his mother's adobe.
She had been attempting something dangerous for a long time now.
A binding ritual.
One meant to seal a terrifying entity forever.
When she had first discussed the idea with the elders, it had been dismissed as a fool's errand. But her conviction, bordering on obsession, had not been born of ignorance. It was fueled by revenge.
The father of her child had been brutally murdered by a mysterious entity.
She could not kill it. So, she chose instead to imprison it for eternity.
She possessed a rare ability known as Spirit Bind; a technique that allowed her to bind spirits, whether cursed or pure, to sacred ivory and communicate with them.
Yet this entity had eluded her.
No matter how fervently she prayed, no matter how much hatred she poured into her invocations, it refused to answer. It would not be bound, and it would not even acknowledge her existence.
As M'Khoro stepped into the gathered crowd, the villagers noticed him at once and respectfully parted to make way for their strongest warrior.
Though tall themselves, they were still a head shorter than the mighty son of the shaman.
M'Khoro cast searching glances at them, clearly trying to understand what had transpired in his absence.
Their faces were stoic. Unnaturally so… Even the children were silent.
He continued scrutinizing them as he advanced. Their skin was darker than his own, adorned with numerous bone piercings and carved jewelry. The village's finest warriors, marked by white war paint, bowed deeply as he passed.
Within moments, he stood before the entrance to the central building, its doorway loosely covered by a patched animal hide.
He inhaled deeply.
Then, with one decisive motion, he swiped the curtain aside and stepped inside.
What greeted him was horrifying.
The elders sat arranged along the edges of a complex ritual circle crafted from finely powdered bone. They were alive, there were no visible wounds upon their bodies.
Yet they were utterly unresponsive.
At the center of the circle stood his mother.
She wore scant ritual garments woven from plant fibers, decorated with carefully carved bone beads. Her long hair was tightly woven into dreadlocks.
Blood poured freely from her eyes and nose.
Sensing her son's presence, the woman slowly opened her bloodshot eyes.
M'Khoro froze.
He had argued fiercely against the ritual when she first proposed it. In truth, he had even hoped it would fail… despite her obsession and resolve. He had always known that something capable of killing his father; a warrior who wielded cursed energy himself, could never be sealed without a terrible price.
And he had known, just as surely, that if such a price had to be paid… His mother would not hesitate.
M'Khoro did not rush to her side.
As a seasoned warrior, he could tell at once, she was not mortally wounded. No… The injury she had suffered ran far deeper than flesh.
The woman coughed violently, blood spilling from her lips. She wiped it away with the back of her hand and slowly straightened herself. She stood nearly as tall as the average man of their tribe, her slender frame held firm by taut, with disciplined muscle hidden beneath obsidian skin.
She smiled.
There was calm in her expression, calm born of relief, as though an unbearable weight had finally been lifted from her soul.
One of the elders collapsed lifelessly as she stepped forward.
She stopped only inches from her son and lifted a trembling, bloodied hand, gently brushing his cheek. Her gaze softened as their eyes met.
"Your eyes…" she murmured in the ancient dialect of the Sao tribe.
"They are the eyes of your father."
M'Khoro had always looked different from the others; his narrow, almond-shaped eyes marked him as apart, as though fate had carved him with a different hand.
His fists slowly clenched.
"Was this necessary?" he asked quietly.
"No, my son," she replied. "It is what I chose."
Her tone darkened, heavy with finality.
"You surrendered your gift," M'Khoro said, his voice tightening.
The accusation carried anger, but beneath it lay fear, and helplessness.
She closed her eyes briefly, then extended her other arm.
Resting in her palm was a small totem, no larger than a finger, carved from the tusk of a bull elephant. Sacred patterns spiraled across its surface, marks that she herself had etched with bare hands and unwavering faith.
Without a word, she looped a thin cord around it, fashioned it into a necklace, and placed it over her son's head.
The totem settled against M'Khoro's sternum.
He studied the carvings closely, his breath shallow.
She pressed the ivory firmly against his chest and smiled sadly.
"My son," she said softly, "I could not bind it."
The words struck him hard. Even after paying such a price… it had failed?
His breath hitched.
"I sealed the greater part of its strength," she continued, pressing the totem harder against him. "Within this."
Her voice grew firm and grave.
"You will guard it with your life," she said. "Until the day one is born who can tear the fiend away from this world."
She met his eyes, unyielding and sharp.
"Swear this upon the spirits of your ancestors."
M'Khoro stood in silence for a long moment. Then he nodded once.
Without another word, he turned and stormed from the chamber.
His mother remained behind, watching him go. A helpless smile lingered on her face as she exhaled softly. She stepped outside to meet the vacant stares of her people.
They understood that their shaman was powerless now.
And among their tribe, a shaman was born only once in a generation.
In the distance, she watched M'Khoro disappear into his hut at the edge of the settlement. A wry, sorrowful smile tugged at her lips.
Inside his dwelling, M'Khoro sat heavily upon a woven rug. The axe lay before him.
In his turmoil and anger, he had forgotten to present the trophy to his mother and honor her, as tradition demanded.
Weariness overtook him slowly. He rested on his back as sleep clawed at his consciousness. His right hand tightened around the axe's shaft, and he lifted it up.
The weapon gleamed a pristine white, its surface contorted with intricate bone patterns embedded deep within its form.
His thoughts drifted back to the battle. It had raged for days, and death had loomed at every moment.
And yet, his opponent had given him something more than just a victory: lessons that would follow him for the rest of his life and teachings that he hadn't quite figured out yet.
A final thought surfaced.
How would he present the axe to his mother?
Would it make her proud?
Sleep took him soon after. He told himself that everything would be fine. He was strong… strong enough to shield his people from any threat that dared to emerge.
However, that belief did not survive the night.
When he awoke… only blood and screams remained.