Avenger stood in the center of the recovery room, trying to anchor himself in a body that no longer felt entirely his own. His senses reported impossible, contradictory data: he felt impossibly light, yet grounded with a new, profound heaviness. A cool serenity washed over him while, simultaneously, a heat of purpose burned in his core. He was nervous about the fight, yet a courage not his own buoyed him. He felt utterly himself, yet undeniably connected to something vast. It felt wrong. It felt right. It felt terrifying, perfect, and deeply, deeply loved.
Nne Nne Aloguja, shrugging on her military coat, watched him with knowing eyes. "Feeling contradictory states of being, yes?"
Avenger, disoriented, could only nod.
She smiled. "Good. That means it's working. What you're feeling isn't just you. It's the current emotional state of all the Children of Africa. And they can feel you, too. Give it a moment. You'll understand."
The words had barely settled when the chaotic jumble of sensations vanished. It wasn't a fade—it was an abrupt severing, leaving him shockingly empty. Then, the true floodgate opened.
Joy. Not his. Happiness. From elsewhere. Love. Pride. A tsunami of pure, positive emotion from dozens, perhaps hundreds of other souls crashed into him, flowing through the newly awakened connection of his Crests. It was overwhelming, beautiful, and utterly destabilizing.
Avenger gasped, his knees buckling. He hit the floor, chest heaving, drowning in a sea of foreign euphoria.
Just as suddenly, the emotional tide shifted. Fear. No, wariness. Sharp spikes of anger—not directed at him, but flowing past him, toward some external threat. The confusion was paralyzing.
"HEY! LEAVE THE BOY ALONE!" Aloguja's voice cracked through the room like a whip, her own Crests flaring with authority. "HE JUST FINISHED THE CEREMONY! GIVE HIM TIME, DAMN YOU! BY THE GODS, I WILL STRIKE YOU LITTLE SHITS MYSELF IF THEY DON'T!"
As if a volume knob had been turned, the torrent of external emotion weakened to a manageable stream. Avenger gulped air, his forehead damp with sweat not entirely his own.
Aloguja knelt beside him, her voice softening. "Don't worry. It was mostly the younger ones, over-excited. The elders knew better than to bombard you. Breathe. Are you back with me?"
Avanger managed a shaky nod, his vocal cords still tangled.
"You're still tongue-tied. It's alright." She pulled him gently, guiding his head to rest against her chest, her hand rubbing firm, steady circles on his back—an anchor in the psychic storm. "Just listen. Your first match is in two hours. I know you're worried about Leo's birthday. If this goes smoothly, the tournament could be over by 11 AM. It's midnight now. Win or lose, you'll still make your promise to Leo."
She felt him relax slightly against her. "Isaac and I pushed for this schedule. We know how much your word means to you. That integrity… it makes me proud, my child."
Avenger took a ragged breath, the words fighting their way out. "Th-tha…nks," he managed, the syllables thick.
Aloguja chuckled, the sound vibrating through her chest. "Don't strain yourself. Now, listen. Your first opponent is an American female named Ohanzee." A sly, knowing smirk touched her lips. "And… there will be a little surprise waiting for you in that ring. A gift for our CHAMPION."
She helped him up and back onto the medical cot. "Rest. I'll see you at the match."
---
Time became a blur of gradual reintegration. The phantom emotions settled into a background hum—a distant choir of his people's collective spirit. His body and mind, no longer under siege, began to sync with the power thrumming beneath his skin.
When he finally rose, it was with a newfound steadiness. He dressed with deliberate, ritual care, each piece of his gear a declaration.
He pulled on sport kicks with a black, red, and yellow pattern that evoked the explosive stripes of a cheetah. Black socks. Silk combat pants, black as space, adorned with red and gold Kente-inspired patterns. A red and green belt with gold accents secured them. His shirt was black, featuring a breathtaking, stylized map of Africa across the back, rendered in vibrant red, green, and gold thread, with the islands of the Caribbean and the diaspora marked in gleaming accents that continued down his sleeves.
Finally, he knelt before a small, polished case. Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay his pendant. The continent of Africa, forged in gold, was inlaid with shapes of red, green, and black. He lifted the chain and clasped it around his neck.
The moment the cool metal touched his skin, the Ancestral Crests across his body responded. They shimmered to life not with rainbow light, but with a deep, thrumming black-purple hue—the color of pride, fear, determination, and excitement all fused into a single, potent resonance.
He clenched his fist, feeling the connection—to the land on his back, to the people in his soul, to the ancestors in his blood, and to the future he was meant to build.
He stood, no longer a boy in a recovery room, but a vessel of purpose. He walked out, his footsteps silent but carrying the weight of a continent, moving toward the arena.
Not for personal glory. Not for simple victory.
All for the glory and prosperity of Africa.