Chapter Twenty: Altars and Bloodlines
The first thing Stephen noticed when he woke up was the sound.
It was not the beeping of machines or the shuffling of nurses' feet. It was a low, distant hum—steady, ancient, and unsettling. It felt like a chant carried by the wind, too deep for human voices, vibrating somewhere beneath the walls of the hospital.
He frowned and turned his head slightly.
The room was empty.
Yet his spirit was not.
Something was stirring.
Stephen closed his eyes and breathed slowly, careful not to alert the pain that still slept in his body. Though weakened, the sickness had not fully left. It lingered like a defeated enemy hiding in shadows, waiting for permission to rise again.
"Holy Spirit," he whispered, "open my eyes."
Immediately, the room shifted.
The Hidden Altar
Stephen saw it.
Not with his physical eyes, but with a clarity that startled him.
Beneath the hospital—far below the concrete, pipes, and foundations—stood an altar. Old. Blackened. Alive. Symbols carved into stone pulsed faintly, feeding on fear, sickness, and despair.
Stephen's breath caught.
"This place…" he whispered. "It's sitting on a covenant."
Hospitals were meant to restore life, but this one had been compromised long ago. Death had negotiated its way in, quietly, patiently, feeding on unattended spiritual gates.
Stephen felt anger rise—not human anger, but righteous grief.
"How many people?" he murmured. "How many lives have passed through this place unaware?"
The altar responded.
A pulse of darkness surged upward, and pain shot through Stephen's body.
He groaned softly.
In the spirit realm, KOA took notice.
Baba Dagunduro's Council
Baba Dagunduro stood before the inner council again, his face unreadable. The failure of the sickness to fully consume Stephen had angered the elders.
"The boy is learning too quickly," one elder hissed. "He is seeing foundations now."
"That hospital was secured," another added. "We fed it for years."
Baba Dagunduro raised his hand.
"You underestimate blood," he said calmly.
The elders fell silent.
"He carries my blood," Baba Dagunduro continued. "Blood remembers. Blood responds. That altar answered him because it recognizes lineage."
Ayanmo stirred, its voice low and oily. "Then awaken the blood fully."
Baba Dagunduro nodded slowly.
"Yes," he said. "It is time Stephen remembers who he is… by force."
A Dream of Roots
That night, Stephen dreamed again.
He stood barefoot on red earth. Massive roots spread beneath him, twisting and interlocking like veins. They pulsed with power—some glowing faintly with light, others dark and swollen.
A voice spoke behind him.
"These are your roots."
Stephen turned.
Before him stood an old man dressed in white, his eyes deep and knowing.
"Every man," the old man continued, "stands on covenants he did not personally make."
Stephen swallowed. "Can they be broken?"
The old man met his gaze. "Only by higher blood."
Stephen looked down at his hands.
They were stained red.
The Call from Home
Stephen woke suddenly to his phone vibrating.
Favour was asleep in the chair beside him, her head tilted awkwardly, exhaustion etched across her face. He hesitated, then reached for the phone.
It was an unfamiliar number.
He answered.
"Stephen," came a voice he had not heard in years. "It is your uncle."
His heart tightened.
"They say your father is sick," the man continued. "Very sick. He keeps calling your name."
Silence stretched between them.
Stephen closed his eyes.
"I will come," he said quietly.
The Journey Back
Returning to Ondo felt like stepping backward in time.
The air was thicker. The trees older. The land itself seemed to watch him. As the bus rolled deeper into familiar territory, Stephen felt pressure build in his chest—not fear, but awareness.
This was not just a visit.
This was confrontation.
Favour sat beside him, her hands folded tightly.
"This is dangerous," she said softly.
"I know," Stephen replied. "But altars tied to blood cannot be fought from afar."
The House of Two Faiths
His childhood home stood exactly as he remembered.
One side painted clean and modest—his mother's influence. The other darkened by soot and age, where charms once hung and rituals were performed.
Stephen stepped inside.
The smell of herbs, smoke, and something older filled the air.
His father lay on a mat in the inner room, eyes sunken, breath shallow. Baba Dagunduro looked smaller now—but the power around him was anything but weak.
"So," his father rasped, "you finally came."
Stephen knelt.
"I came to end this," he said gently.
A bitter laugh escaped his father's lips. "You think you can erase blood?"
Stephen lifted his head. "I think blood has already spoken."
The Ancestral Uprising
The room darkened.
Wind rushed through the house though all doors were closed. Shadows gathered along the walls, forming shapes—figures Stephen recognized from dreams and stories.
Ancestors.
Unclean spirits bound to lineage.
"You were named for us," a voice echoed. "You belong to us."
Stephen stood.
"I was renamed at Golgotha."
The ground shook.
The Clash of Altars
Stephen lifted his hands.
"I stand under a new covenant," he declared. "Not by culture. Not by tradition. But by blood."
The shadows screamed.
The ancestral altar manifested—stones cracking through the floor, symbols glowing fiercely.
Stephen felt pressure crush his chest.
For a moment, doubt flashed.
What if this is too big?
Then he remembered the cross.
He remembered silence.
He remembered surrender.
"The blood of Jesus speaks better things," he shouted.
Light erupted.
A Father's Fall
Baba Dagunduro screamed—not in pain, but in terror.
The altar cracked.
The symbols faded.
The room filled with stillness.
Stephen's father collapsed, gasping.
For the first time, his eyes were clear.
"What have I done?" he whispered.
Stephen knelt beside him, tears falling freely.
"You can still choose," Stephen said.
Aftermath
By morning, the house felt different.
Lighter.
Broken charms lay powerless on the floor.
Stephen stepped outside and inhaled deeply.
This was not the end.
But something foundational had shifted.
KOA had lost a stronghold.
And they would not forgive it.
"Christ hath redeemed us from the curse of the law, being made a curse for us."
— Galatians 3:13