Beneath the roots of the world, where light had never touched, the Underworld pulsed with ancient rhythm.
This was no place of torment, but of balance — a realm where the spirits of the dead were guided, judged, and returned to the soil. Rivers of memory flowed between obsidian hills, and mountains of bone stood silent, holding the weight of forgotten names.
At its center sat Ekwensu, the African god of the underworld — The Under-King.
Once worshipped as the keeper of endings and the guardian of balance, he now paced his stone hall, his footsteps shaking the very foundations of the dead lands.
His face was carved of shadow and flame — a mask of war and wisdom. His eyes held galaxies of judgment. In one hand, he carried Okwute, the stone staff that could command silence. In the other, the Scroll of Last Names, which listed all spirits meant to pass through his realm — and those never to leave.
And tonight, names had vanished from it.
The prison beneath his throne — carved from black meteorite and sealed by seven ancestral rites — had been breached.
"Ugu the Silent."
"Mbanje of the Teeth."
"Karaké the Flame-Eater."
"And above all… Nduka the Hollow."
Not merely souls.
Not mere criminals.
These were chaos itself, imprisoned long ago for crimes against both gods and man.
They had not escaped alone.
They had become one — Nduka had merged with their broken spirits, ascending into something darker, something corrupted by rage and time. He now wore their agony like armor, and called himself:
"Obiro — The Shadow Sovereign."
Ekwensu's voice cracked the sky of the underworld.
"Who opened the gate?" he roared.
The spirits of his court — judges, guides, and wraith-servants — knelt in silence.
A small whisper came from the corner, a shivering soul who had once been a priestess of the veil.
"They were summoned... not by our will, but by the suffering of the living. The world above bleeds. The gates cracked when the mourning grew too loud."
Ekwensu's jaw clenched. "So the balance has broken not from within, but from above."
He turned, walking toward the Mirror of Murk, a vast pool that allowed him to see the mortal realm.
Within it, he saw them:
— A warrior forged by fire: Nnamdi.
— A hunter who walked with silence: Ifeanyi.
— A daughter of divine healing: Adanna.
— And a whisperer of roots and bones: Amahle.
And beyond them — in the mists of shadow and ruin — he saw Obiro rising. A form made of swirling darkness, stitched faces, stolen power, and ancient hate.
Obiro led the Shadow-Born, commanding not just their bodies, but their grief. Feeding on forgotten pain like a god of rot.
Ekwensu struck the floor with Okwute. Thunder echoed across the dead hills.
"The realm of the living is not yours to ruin," he said, voice like grinding stone. "You were judged, sealed, and named. You defy me now, Obiro, but you will kneel."
He looked again at the mirror. At the mortals walking the path of resistance.
"They are only flesh. But their hearts carry the voice of the ancestors. Their spirits stir the balance."
A deep silence followed. Then a decision.
"Summon the Nine Bound Ones" he commanded. "The guardians of the Deep Gate. The war returns — and the dead shall not stay silent."
As the mirror rippled and the halls grew cold, Ekwensu whispered:
"Obiro, you call yourself Sovereign of Shadows. But you walk in a realm that still belongs to me."
And far above, on the bleeding earth, a new tremor shook the soil — not from the Shadow-Born…
But from the wrath of a god long still.