Alone.
The word took on a physical dimension. Avenger sat in the center of a pitch-black chamber, deep beneath the arena complex. The air itself was a weight, thick and superheated until each breath scalded his lungs. He was shirtless, bound not by chains of metal, but by bands of focused energy that hummed against his skin, locking him in a seated position of meditation. Sweat did not bead on his skin—it poured from him in continuous rivulets, pattering onto the heated floor with a hiss, the room smelling of salt, ozone, and scorched stone.
This was the beginning. The ceremony of transforming into an adult —the Making of a man. The forging of a champion.
The door, a seamless part of the wall until now, irised open with a sigh of cooler air. Six figures entered, their forms obscured by ritual masks of profound and ancient significance. Each mask represented a pillar of the world Avenger had chosen to uphold.
The First wore the stark, white, elongated face of a Fang Ngil Mask. The spirit of justice.
Its wearer's voice was a resonant,impartial gong. "We carve Justice, so your hand is never swayed by spite, only by righteousness. May your people always find shelter in your actions." The figure moved with liquid grace, its cool hands gripping Avenger's right arm with an unbreakable, grounding hold.
The Second approached in a Grebo War Mask, a geometric face of layered wood and metal, meant to terrify. The spirit of vengeance.
Its voice was a sharp,serrated whisper. "We carve Vengeance, not for your rage, but for the memory of our ancestors. May their silenced cries guide your strikes against all who have harmed, are harming, or will ever think to harm Africa." Calloused hands, strong as iron, seized his left arm.
The Third glided forward in a serene Kwele Heart-Shaped Mask, its features gentle, almost feminine. The spirit of love.
Its voice was the softest,a mother's lullaby with a core of steel. "We carve the Love of your people. Let it be your unbreakable shield. May its warmth guard your heart against the cold hatred you must face." A gentle, warm palm pressed flat against the center of his sweating chest.
The Fourth stalked in wearing a fierce Sukuma Mask, a hybrid of human and animal ferocity. The spirit of community and bravery.
Its voice was a collective rasp,like many speaking as one. "We carve the Strength of Community. You do not stand on your own bones, but on the shoulders of all who came before and stand beside you. This will keep you from falling." A hand, heavy with shared burden, clamped onto his right thigh.
The Fifth moved with a dancer's precision in a Chikunza Mask, symbolizing the pathfinder.
Its voice was clear and direct,like a guide in the dark. "We carve the Path. May every step you take, in this ring and beyond, clear stones for those who follow. May your journey blaze a trail of safety and glory for our people." A firm, purposeful grip closed on his left calf.
The Sixth and Final figure was shrouded head-to-toe in robes of Black, Red, Gold, and Green, with a single, vertical stripe of Royal Purple. No mask was needed. They represented the Whole.
Their voice was not a single sound,but a harmonic chorus, low and vast as the continent itself. "We carve Unity. In life, in struggle, in death, and in memory. May the people be one, as you are one with them." The figure circled Avenger once, completing the constellation of touch, and placed a burning palm between his shoulder blades.
A synchronized, silent command passed between them.
Where their hands gripped Avenger's skin, their flesh changed. It shimmered, hardened, and elongated into gleaming, ritual blades—not of steel, but of solidified will and focused light.
Then, they began to carve.
It was not surgery. It was sacred inscription. The blades did not cut through him, but into the very concept of his flesh, etching destiny upon his cells. The sound was a wet, precise shhhhk-shhhhk, followed by the sizzle of energized plasma sealing the path. Agony, white-hot and profound, erupted from each line. It was the pain of a tattoo multiplied by the pain of a branding, fused with the spiritual ache of a promise being seared into his soul. He heard his own flesh part. He smelled it—not just blood, but the ozone-tang of his own latent power being tapped, shaped, and brought to the surface.
As they worked, the freshly inscribed lines began to glow. Not with a single light, but with a cascading rainbow luminescence that started at the deepest violet at the point of incision, flowing through indigo, blue, green, yellow, and orange. If one had the sight to see, the glowing patterns were not random. They were the very words the mask-bearers had recited, written in a flowing, angular script of light—a covenant written on the parchment of his body.
Justice coiled around his right arm in bands of violet and indigo.
Vengeance twisted around his left in pulsing reds and oranges.
The Heart-Shield bloomed over his chest in a radiant,protective green.
The Community's Strength rooted down his right leg in steady,earthy gold.
The Pathfinder's Way snaked down his left in a clear,guiding yellow.
The Unity bond spread across his shoulders in interlocking threads of all colors.
Finally, the six figures converged on his back. Their blades moved as one, a symphony of terrible, beautiful artistry. They carved the ultimate symbol: a vast, intricate, and breathtakingly detailed map of Africa, from the Cape to the Mediterranean, each mountain range, river, and coastline rendered in glowing, iridescent script.
As the final line was sealed—the tip of the Sinai Peninsula—the luminescence across his body surged. The rainbow spectrum blazed, illuminating the dark chamber in a cathedral of colored light, before settling into a permanent, low thrum beneath his skin, visible only as a faint, ethereal shimmer.
The energy bonds dissipated. The masked figures stepped back as one, bowed their heads, and melted into the shadows, leaving as silently as they came.
The ceremony was complete.
Avenger did not stand. He had no strength to. A wave of total, absolute expenditure—physical, emotional, spiritual—crashed over him. The heat, the pain, the weight of the covenant now literally etched into his being, collapsed his consciousness.
He pitched forward, the glowing map of Africa on his back the last thing to fade as the darkness swallowed him whole.