Chapter Fifteen: The Making of Watchmen
The siege had changed everything.
Stephen no longer measured days by lectures or meals, but by spiritual pressure. Morning felt like night. Night felt like battle. The city breathed uneasily, as though it sensed the invisible war raging beneath its streets.
He stood before the mirror in his room and barely recognized himself. The fear that once lived in his eyes had been replaced by something heavier—responsibility.
Not ambition.
Calling.
The Burden of Leadership
Leadership came quietly.
Not with applause.
Not with titles.
It came with sleepless nights, with the weight of knowing that if he fell, others would scatter. Stephen felt it now as he knelt alone, forehead pressed to the floor.
"Lord," he whispered, "I can't do this alone."
The answer came not as reassurance—but instruction.
Train them.
Stephen exhaled slowly.
This war would not be won by one man.
The Call to Consecration
That evening, Stephen gathered the remnant again.
They were fewer now.
Fear had thinned the numbers. Those who remained were not the loudest or strongest—but the willing.
Stephen spoke plainly.
"This is no longer a prayer group," he said. "It's an altar. And altars require sacrifice."
No one spoke.
"If you stay," he continued, "you will be tested. Tempted. Pressured. Attacked. This is not about excitement or power. It's about obedience."
A long silence followed.
Then one voice said quietly, "Teach us."
Stephen closed his eyes.
The watchmen were rising.
Foundations of War
Training began with silence.
Stephen taught them how to listen—to God, to their spirits, to the shifting atmosphere. He taught them fasting, not as hunger, but as alignment. Prayer was no longer rushed or emotional; it became deliberate, focused, disciplined.
Favour watched closely, helping where she could, correcting gently, discerning constantly.
"Darkness is organized," she told them. "So must light be."
Stephen taught them scriptures—not to quote blindly, but to understand authority.
"You don't shout at darkness," he said. "You stand."
Something began to change.
The First Test
The test came sooner than expected.
One night, as they prayed, the atmosphere thickened abruptly. A weight settled over the room—familiar, hostile.
Stephen's eyes snapped open.
"They're probing," he said.
A shadow formed near the corner—not fully manifest, but present enough to be felt. Fear rippled through the group.
Stephen did not move.
"Hold your ground," he said calmly.
The shadow pressed closer, testing reactions.
One member panicked and tried to pray loudly, words tumbling over each other. The pressure increased.
Stephen raised a hand.
"Peace," he said.
He spoke one sentence.
"Jesus Christ is Lord here."
The shadow recoiled and vanished.
The room exhaled.
Stephen turned to them.
"That," he said, "is authority."
KOA Unveils a General
Far away, the failure was reported.
Baba Dagunduro listened in silence.
"They are learning," an elder said. "The boy is training them."
Baba Dagunduro's face hardened.
"Then we escalate beyond containment."
He turned toward a figure standing apart from the others—tall, still, wrapped in a presence that bent the air around it.
"Release Ayanmo," Baba Dagunduro said.
The name itself darkened the space.
Ayanmo was not reckless.
Not loud.
It was precision.
The Cost of Standing
The counterattack did not strike Stephen first.
It struck someone weaker.
One of the prayer group members collapsed suddenly during lectures, body intact, spirit shattered. Doctors found nothing wrong. But his eyes were empty, his voice flat.
Stephen stood beside the hospital bed, fists clenched.
"They punished him," he whispered.
Favour nodded grimly. "A warning."
Stephen bowed his head.
"This is my fault."
"No," she said firmly. "This is war."
Stephen prayed quietly—not for revenge, but for mercy. Slowly, warmth returned to the student's eyes. Not fully healed—but not lost.
Stephen understood then.
Darkness would use pain to discourage obedience.
The Sacrifice
That night, Stephen made a decision.
He fasted alone.
No water.
No comfort.
Only prayer.
Hours stretched into agony. Weakness pressed in. Old thoughts returned—fear, doubt, memories of the shrine, his father's voice.
"You could end this," the whispers came. "Submit. Save them."
Stephen wept.
But he did not move.
"I belong to Christ," he said through tears. "Even if it costs everything."
Something broke.
Not him.
The hold of fear.
A Shift in the Spirit
As dawn approached, Stephen felt it.
Authority deepened.
Not louder—but heavier.
He rose slowly, exhausted but steady.
Across the city, pressure eased slightly. Altars flickered back to life. A few pastors found their voices again. Prayer returned in pockets.
KOA noticed.
Baba Dagunduro slammed his staff down.
"He's paying the price," he snarled. "And it's working."
An elder whispered, "Then we must make the price unbearable."
Baba Dagunduro smiled coldly.
"Good."
The Watchmen Stand
Stephen gathered the group again.
He looked at them—not as students, but as sentinels.
"You are watchmen now," he said. "You stand when others sleep. You pray when others doubt. You guard what cannot be seen."
They nodded.
Fear still lived there.
But so did fire.
The End of Chapter Fifteen
Stephen stood alone that night, overlooking the city once more.
He could feel Ayanmo moving somewhere beyond sight—calculating, waiting.
The war had entered a smarter phase.
More dangerous.
But Stephen was no longer reacting.
He was preparing.
And somewhere deep within him, Golgotha whispered again—not of suffering, but of victory born through sacrifice.
"Son of man, I have made thee a watchman unto the house of Israel."
— Ezekiel 3:17