Chapter Eleven: The Bloodline Altar
The reaction in the spirit realm was violent.
Stephen felt it before dawn—an invisible quake that shook his inner man, like thunder rolling through his bones. He woke up gasping, sweat soaking his clothes, his heart racing as though he had been running from something unseen.
Something had been activated.
He sat upright on his bed, breathing slowly, listening. The room was silent, but his spirit screamed with warning.
KOA had responded.
The Altar of Origins
Deep within the spiritual headquarters of KOA, a forbidden altar was being prepared—an altar older than the covenants of the land, buried beneath generations of blood, names, and ancestral claims.
Baba Dagunduro stood barefoot before it.
The altar was not built of stone, but of memories—names carved into the air, sacrifices remembered rather than seen. It glowed faintly, pulsing like a living heart. This was the Bloodline Altar, the final authority of KOA over families they claimed.
Stephen's name hovered above it.
Ogundare.
Baba Dagunduro lifted his staff and spoke with a voice layered by many voices.
"He has broken charms. He has rejected names. He has defied the call of his fathers. But blood does not forget."
The elders answered in unison, chanting ancient words that stirred the altar to life.
The ritual had begun.
The Weight of Inheritance
Back on campus, Stephen staggered as an unseen weight pressed down on him. His knees buckled, and he caught himself against a wall. A deep ache spread through his chest, heavy and suffocating.
It wasn't sickness.
It was inheritance.
Images flooded his mind—faces he had never met, rituals he had never attended, oaths spoken before he was born. Generations of allegiance tried to pull him back into alignment.
"You belong to us," a voice whispered from within. "You carry our mark."
Stephen clenched his fists, trembling.
"I belong to Christ," he said aloud, though his voice shook.
But the pressure did not lift.
Favour Discerns the Shift
Favour knew something was wrong the moment she began to pray that morning.
Her words felt resisted, as though pushing against a wall. The atmosphere around her was dense, heavy with ancestral echoes. She stopped praying and listened instead.
"They've gone to the bloodline," she whispered.
Fear pricked her heart, but she did not allow it to settle. She reached for her phone and called Stephen.
"Where are you?" she asked urgently.
"My room," he replied weakly.
"Don't move. I'm coming."
The Gathering of the Remnant
By midday, the small prayer group had gathered quietly in Stephen's room. There was no singing. No noise. Only solemn faces and bowed heads.
They could all feel it.
Something ancient had risen.
Stephen sat in the center, pale and drained. The group formed a circle around him—not touching, but aligned.
Favour spoke first.
"This is not a normal attack. KOA has activated ancestral authority. They are invoking his bloodline to reclaim him."
A murmur ran through the room.
One of the students asked softly, "Can they do that?"
Favour met their eyes. "Only if we let them."
The Struggle Within
As they prayed, Stephen felt himself pulled in two directions.
On one side was light—firm, quiet, steady.
On the other was darkness—not loud, but persuasive, familiar. It reminded him of who he had been, of expectations placed on him before he could speak.
"You are breaking the chain," the darkness whispered. "And chains do not break without cost."
Stephen cried out—not in volume, but in surrender.
"Jesus… help me."
Something shifted.
Confrontation at the Altar
In the spirit realm, Baba Dagunduro staggered.
The Bloodline Altar flickered.
"What is happening?" an elder demanded.
"There is resistance," Baba Dagunduro snarled. "He is not standing alone."
The chants intensified. Names were called. Blood was invoked.
But then—light touched the altar.
Not forcefully.
Not violently.
Simply present.
Cracks formed across its surface.
"This is impossible," an elder hissed. "Blood outranks belief."
Baba Dagunduro's face twisted with fury. "Unless the blood has been answered by greater blood."
The Power of the Cross
Back in Stephen's room, the atmosphere changed.
The heaviness broke suddenly, like glass shattering. Stephen inhaled sharply, as though air had returned to his lungs after being held underwater.
Tears streamed down his face.
"I see it," he whispered. "The cross."
The group felt it too—a warmth, a stillness, a presence that silenced every other voice.
Favour spoke through tears. "The blood of Jesus speaks better things."
In the spirit realm, the Bloodline Altar split in two.
A cry of rage echoed as the name Ogundare burned away, leaving only one name standing.
Stephen.
Redeemed.
The Fallout
Baba Dagunduro was thrown backward, crashing into the shadows.
KOA reeled.
Their strongest anchor had been challenged—and wounded.
"This is not over," Baba Dagunduro growled, rising slowly. "If blood fails, then we move to destruction."
His eyes burned with resolve.
"We will not reclaim him. We will end him."
A New Authority
Stephen slept that night—deeply, peacefully, for the first time in weeks.
When he awoke, something was different.
He felt lighter.
Stronger.
Not arrogant—but assured.
The past no longer whispered.
The charm lay broken in the corner of the room, dull and powerless.
Stephen stood and whispered a prayer.
"Thank You… for bringing me back to Golgotha."
"Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us."
— Galatians 3:13