The land did not heal.
That was the first sign something had gone terribly wrong.
Where Ọbara had fallen, the soil remained black and dry, cracking like burnt skin. No grass dared sprout. No insect crawled. Even the wind avoided the crater, curling around it as though afraid of catching a sickness.
Chukwudi knelt at its edge for a long time.
Nothing answered.
No pulse.
No whisper.
The earth that once murmured beneath his bones had gone silent.
"You broke a law older than us all," Idemili said behind him. Her voice carried no mockery now. Only caution. "You didn't just kill a god. You taught the land it could lose its gods."
Chukwudi stood slowly.
"I cut out a disease," he said.
"Yes," she replied softly. "And the body does not know whether to thank you or bleed to death."
---
They traveled west.
The cursed children followed, quieter now. Even Obinna had lost his certainty. He tried to call worms from the soil and failed. The ground refused him. When he pressed his ear to the earth, he recoiled as if burned.
"It won't speak to me," he whispered.
Chukwudi tried next.
Nothing.
A cold fear settled in his chest.
The earth was not angry.
It was withdrawing.
---
The first village they reached had already prepared for them.
Totems lined the road—charms made from bone, scripture, and iron. Symbols of alụsị were carved over with new sigils: HUMAN signs. The people stood in ranks, holding weapons that glowed faintly red.
A woman stepped forward, her hair braided with cowries.
"We know what you are," she said. "We know what you've done."
Chukwudi raised his hands slowly.
"We're passing through."
The woman shook her head.
"There is no passing through anymore," she replied. "The gods are dying. And when gods die, men inherit their mess."
She lifted her weapon.
The air vibrated.
---
The attack was precise.
Net-launchers inscribed with god-binding runes pinned two of the cursed children instantly. A sonic blade shattered the shadow-girl into screaming fragments. One of the twins was torn apart—not by magic, but by design.
Human design.
Chukwudi felt something snap.
Not rage.
Grief sharpened into resolve.
He stepped forward.
The earth did not answer.
So he answered himself.
---
Chukwudi reached inside the crater left by Ọbara—inside the absence—and pulled.
Not power.
Memory.
The echo of what a god had been.
The weapons faltered.
The ground split anyway.
Not because the earth obeyed—but because it could no longer resist.
When the dust settled, the village still stood.
Barely.
Chukwudi did not destroy them.
That frightened the survivors more than massacre ever could.
"You should have killed us," the woman whispered.
Chukwudi met her gaze.
"No," he said. "You'll tell others what restraint looks like."
---
That night, Adaeze worsened.
Her veins darkened. Her breath came in hisses. Scales surfaced beneath her skin, then sank back, leaving burns behind.
"The bond is tearing me apart," she gasped. "The Snake Mother was my anchor."
Chukwudi held her, helpless.
Idemili watched, face unreadable.
"If she stays," the river goddess said quietly, "she will either ascend or shatter. There is no middle."
Chukwudi looked at the sleeping children—fewer now.
"How many more have to die for balance?" he asked.
Idemili did not answer.
---
Near dawn, the earth spoke.
Not to Chukwudi.
To Obinna.
The boy screamed, clutching his head as blood trickled from his nose.
"It says…" he sobbed. "It says you are no longer its son."
Chukwudi froze.
Obinna looked at him in terror.
"It says you are a knife left inside a wound."
Silence followed.
He felt it then.
The truth he had been avoiding.
He was no longer a child of the earth.
He was something the earth endured.
Far away, ancient mechanisms turned.
Human forges grew bolder.
And in the deep places beneath the world—where even alụsị feared to listen—something began to crawl upward.
The age of gods was ending.
And something worse was learning how.