The door opened.
Ìgè emerged first, his divine form manifesting in full glory—white fur rippling with power, blood red spots glowing faintly, gold lining tracing elegant patterns across his body. The leopard stretched languidly, as if he'd just woken from a nap rather than witnessed months of brutal training.
"You know," Ìgè said conversationally, "I could just rip the curse out."
Everyone froze.
Osazuwa turned slowly. "What did you just say?"
"The curse." Ìgè sat, tail swishing. "It's woven into his soul, yes, but I could theoretically just—" He made a pulling motion with one paw. "—yank it out. Might take some of his soul with it, but—"
"Spirit," Osazuwa interrupted, his voice tight with forced restraint. "With all due respect to your divine nature, what you're suggesting is impossibly reckless."
"I'm just saying it's an option."
"It is NOT an option," Osazuwa said firmly. "The curse is integrated at a fundamental level. Attempting to remove it that way would unravel his entire spiritual structure. He would die. Or worse."
Eghosa grunted. "The leopard jokes, but he knows this."
Ìgè's eyes gleamed with amusement, but he didn't argue further.
"Regardless," Osazuwa continued, turning his attention to the matter at hand, "we need to assess his spiritual capacity before we continue." He looked at the other ancestors. "We need to know exactly what we're working with."
---
They gathered around Osaze, forming a circle.
"This won't hurt," Osazuwa said, "but it will feel... strange. We're going to enter your spiritual space. See what reserves you're actually drawing from."
One by one, they placed their hands on him. Osazuwa's hand on his forehead. Adesuwa's on his shoulder. Eghosa's heavy palm on his chest. Ivie's fingers gentle at his temple. Omonigho's trembling touch at his wrist. Eloho's hand covering his heart. Even Òsómwèngié, who had remained distant and observing, stepped forward and placed a single finger at the base of Osaze's spine.
The world inverted.
---
They stood in Osaze's spiritual space.
A vast, endless sea of blood stretched in every direction. The sky was red. The horizon was red. Everything was the color of life itself, thick and viscous and *alive*.
"By the gods," Adesuwa whispered.
In the distance, something massive stirred beneath the surface.
Two eyes opened. Enormous. Glowing. Predatory.
The figure rose—not fully, just enough to *see* them. It was Osaze, but *wrong*. Merged with something bestial, something ancient and furious. His form was grotesque and beautiful at once, humanoid but rippling with too many muscles, too much power. Leopard markings crawled across skin that shimmered between flesh and something harder, more primal.
The Beast—or perhaps Osaze's true spiritual self—regarded them with intelligence.
And then it *smiled*.
"RUN!" Omonigho screamed.
They fled. All of them. Even Eghosa, who lived for battle, scrambled backward as if the ground itself was collapsing.
All except Òsómwèngié, who stood perfectly still, meeting those glowing eyes with calm acknowledgment.
The figure sank back beneath the blood-red sea.
They returned to the ancestral realm, gasping.
"What—what was that?" Ivie clutched her chest.
Osazuwa steadied himself against a pillar, his usual composure shattered. "That... that was *him*. His true capacity."
"That wasn't human," Adesuwa said flatly. "That was—"
"More than we anticipated," Òsómwèngié said quietly. It was the first time he'd spoken in weeks. "But not unexpected."
Everyone turned to stare at him.
"You *knew*?" Eghosa demanded.
"I suspected." Òsómwèngié's expression didn't change. "The boy's potential was always going to be... disproportionate."
Osazuwa ran a hand through his hair. "This changes nothing. If anything, it confirms what we already knew." He looked at Osaze, who was still dazed from the experience. "You have enough power. More than enough. The question is whether you can *control* it."
"Then we train him," Adesuwa said.
"We train him," Osazuwa agreed.
---
Omonigho's domain was small. Cramped. A space built for survival, not glory.
"You think I'm a coward," Omonigho said as he paced nervously around Osaze. "You all do. And maybe I am. But I'm alive. That counts for something."
He stopped, looking directly at Osaze.
"I'm going to teach you how to reattach severed parts. Limbs. Organs. Even your head, if it comes to that." He paused. "But understand—I'm not teaching you this so you can be reckless. I'm teaching you this so you know that *survival is always an option*."
The training was straightforward. Clinical. Omonigho severed Osaze's arm, showed him how to use blood as stitching, how to reconnect nerves and vessels with spiritual precision.
Osaze caught on quickly. Too quickly.
"That's... that's it?" Omonigho said, almost disappointed. "You've already got it?"
"I think so."
Omonigho looked sad. "I didn't get enough time with you."
Osaze frowned. "What do you mean?"
But Omonigho just shook his head. "Go. The others are waiting."
It wasn't until later—much later—that Osaze would realize Omonigho had been hiding something. In the spiritual realm, away from the limitations of the physical world, Omonigho had pushed his regeneration far beyond simple reattachment. But he'd only shown Osaze the basics.
*Why?*
Still, Osaze understood something now. Fear wasn't the same as cowardice. Omonigho survived because he *chose* to. Running wasn't weakness—it was strategy. And sometimes, the bravest thing you could do was stand your ground when every instinct screamed at you to flee.
---
Ivie's domain was dark. A cavern lit only by flickering candles that smelled of something old and earthy.
"Come here, child," she said, arms outstretched.
Osaze hesitated.
She smiled—not unkindly, but unsettling nonetheless. "I won't bite. Much."
He stepped forward, and she pulled him into an embrace. It should have been comforting. It *almost* was.
But her grip was too tight. Her breath too close to his ear.
"You don't have a mother," she whispered. "I know what that's like. To be alone."
Osaze stiffened, but she didn't let go.
"I had children once. Beautiful children. They all died. Except one." Her voice cracked. "And he ran. Called me a witch. Said I cursed them."
She finally released him, stepping back. Her eyes were wet.
"I didn't curse them. I loved them too much. And the world punished me for it."
The training began.
It was brutal. A year passed in that cavern—an entire *year*—and Ivie did not hold back. She taught him how to control the blood of others, how to make them move against their will, how to turn their own bodies into prisons.
"You need to *feel* it," she said, her hands guiding his. "Blood is life. Blood is connection. Blood is *love*."
She made him practice on her. Made him stop her heart, restart it, manipulate her limbs like a puppet.
"Good," she breathed. "Now do it faster."
It was invasive. Uncomfortable. Wrong.
But effective.
And through it all, Osaze began to understand something he hadn't expected: Ivie wasn't teaching him cruelty. She was teaching him *care*. To control someone's blood, you had to understand them. To manipulate life, you had to *respect* it.
When the training finally ended, Ivie cupped his face in her hands.
"You have her eyes, you know. Your mother's. I can see it."
Osaze felt something twist in his chest.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
She smiled—genuinely this time. "Go. And remember: love is not always gentle. Sometimes it has teeth."
He walked away from her domain with something settling in his chest. The people around him—Kemi, Damian, even Chidi—they were *there*. And that mattered. Ivie had lost everyone. He still had a chance to protect the ones he cared about. He wouldn't take that for granted.
---
Eghosa's domain was a battlefield. Always.
The ground was scorched. The air smelled of iron and ash. Distant screams echoed—whether memory or manifestation, Osaze couldn't tell.
"FINALLY!" Eghosa roared, clapping Osaze on the back hard enough to stagger him. "No more healing. No more *thinking*. Now we FIGHT!"
He didn't manifest a simple axe this time.
Blood coalesced in his hands, forming something sleek. Mechanical. A *rifle*.
He aimed at a distant target and fired. The blood bullet tore through the air with a crack, obliterating stone.
Osaze stared.
"You thought I only knew swords and spears?" Eghosa laughed, a wild sound. "Boy, I am a WARMONGER. I know *all* weapons. Old and new. Primitive and advanced."
He tossed the rifle aside and created something else. A shotgun. Then a pistol. Then something that looked like a railgun, massive and humming with compressed spiritual power.
"Guns. Artillery. Cannons. Mines. Grenades." Eghosa grinned savagely. "If it kills, I've mastered it."
The training was relentless.
Eghosa taught him how to create firearms from blood—not just the shape, but the *function*. How to compress blood into bullets with devastating penetrating force. How to create shotguns that expelled spiritual power in wide, lethal spreads. How to build artillery cannons that could level structures from a distance.
"Power isn't just about swinging a blade!" Eghosa shouted over the sound of explosions. "It's about *range*! *Devastation*! *IMPACT*!"
He made Osaze create weapon after weapon. Pistols that fired in rapid succession. Sniper rifles with impossibly long range. Grenades that detonated in controlled bursts. Mines that activated on proximity. Spheres of compressed blood that exploded into deadly shrapnel.
Railguns. Plasma-like discharges. Constructs that could track and hunt targets independently.
But Osaze noticed something as the months wore on. The weapons Eghosa made were purely blood. Powerful, yes. Devastating, absolutely. But they lacked something.
Osaze began experimenting in private.
At night, when Eghosa rested, Osaze would slip into the Library of Memory—the place where Osazuwa stored knowledge.
He studied. Refined. *Improved*.
He began making small adjustments to his constructs. Adding something that made them more stable. More durable. Bullets that didn't dissolve as quickly. Barrels that didn't crack under repeated use. Structural reinforcements that Eghosa had never considered.
A rifle that could fire longer without degrading. A blade that held its edge through multiple strikes. A shield that absorbed impact better.
He took notes. Detailed schematics. Variations that went beyond what Eghosa taught.
Eghosa never knew.
When the training ended, Eghosa grinned. "You'll do. You're not great, but you'll survive a war."
Osaze didn't correct him.
But he'd learned something crucial: take what you're given and make it better. Eghosa had shown him the foundation, but Osaze had built the house. And more importantly—he'd learned to keep his advantages hidden. Not everything needed to be shared.
---
Adesuwa's domain was an open training ground. Sparse. Functional. No distractions.
She stood in the center, holding a blood-forged spear.
"You already know the basics," she said. "I taught you how to make a spear. How to run. How to *survive*."
She spun the spear once, and the air whistled.
"Now I'm going to teach you how to *win*."
The training was different this time. Sharper. More aggressive.
Adesuwa didn't coddle him. Didn't explain twice. She demonstrated once, then attacked.
"MOVE!"
Osaze dodged, barely.
"FASTER!"
He blocked. The impact rattled his bones.
"THINK!"
She swept his legs out from under him, and he hit the ground hard.
"Again."
They fought for weeks. Months. Adesuwa's spear found flesh more often than not, leaving cuts that healed almost as fast as they opened.
But Osaze was learning.
Footwork. Angles. Timing. The way to read an opponent's weight distribution. The way to *anticipate*.
One day, he managed to disarm her.
Adesuwa smiled. It was fierce. Proud.
"Good. Now show me what you learned from Eghosa."
Osaze hesitated. "I don't think—"
She threw her spear at his head.
He reacted on instinct. Blood erupted from his palm, forming a shield—reinforced. Improved beyond what Eghosa had taught. The spear deflected cleanly.
Adesuwa's eyes widened slightly. Then she laughed.
"You've been holding back. Smart." She walked over, picking up her spear. "Don't do that in a real fight. If you have an advantage, *use it*."
She tapped the reinforced shield with the tip of her spear.
"This is good. Better than what Eghosa would've made. Keep doing this."
Something clicked in Osaze's mind. Winning wasn't just about power. It was about precision. Strategy. The ability to adapt mid-fight and use every advantage you had. Adesuwa had taught him that survival wasn't enough—you had to *dominate*. But intelligently.
---
Osazuwa and Eloho stood on opposite sides of a library table. Between them sat a single, ancient book.
"This," Osazuwa said, "contains advanced healing techniques. Techniques even I haven't fully mastered."
Eloho nodded. "And techniques for blood constructs that I never achieved."
They both reached for it at the same time.
"I need this," Osazuwa said calmly.
"So do I," Eloho replied, just as calmly.
They locked eyes.
And then they began to argue. Not loudly. Not violently. But with the intensity of two people who *desperately* wanted the same thing.
Osaze watched from the doorway, confused.
Then, on impulse, he stepped into the library.
And he *duplicated the book*.
It wasn't Osazuwa's doing. It wasn't Ìgè's interference.
It was *Osaze*, manipulating the spiritual realm itself, creating a perfect copy from memory and will.
Both ancestors froze.
Osazuwa picked up one copy. Eloho picked up the other. They stared at Osaze.
"You..." Osazuwa began.
"...duplicated it," Eloho finished.
Osazuwa set the book down slowly. "You weren't supposed to be able to do that yet."
"This was a test," Eloho said gently. "To see if you'd learned to manipulate this realm beyond just combat."
"You passed," Osazuwa said. There was something like pride in his voice.
Osaze felt something shift inside him. Power wasn't just physical. The spiritual realm responded to *will*, to *understanding*. He was beginning to grasp the deeper mechanics of his existence.
Eloho's domain was a vast savanna at twilight. The sky was painted in shades of purple and gold, and the grass swayed in a wind that didn't quite exist.
"I want to show you something," Eloho said.
She raised her hand, and blood pooled in her palm. It began to shift. Twist. *Form*.
But it didn't form into anything recognizable. Just... blobs. Vaguely animal-shaped, but shapeless. Incomplete.
"This," she said quietly, "is where I stopped."
The blood-blobs collapsed back into liquid.
"I could never get them to *solidify*. To become real, functional constructs." She looked at Osaze. "But you can."
"How do you know?"
"Because you understand anatomy. Because you study life. Because you've already been improving on what the others taught you in secret."
Osaze stiffened. "You knew?"
Eloho smiled. "I know many things, child. Now. Let me show you what I *can* do, and you show me what's possible."
The training was collaborative. Eloho taught him the basics—how to shape blood into forms that *wanted* to be alive. Wolves. Birds. Insects.
But Osaze took it further.
He added structure. Internal systems. Skeletal frameworks that gave them shape and purpose.
His blood-wolves had *teeth* that could tear. His blood-birds had *talons* that could grip. His blood-insects could *bite* and inject.
Eloho watched in fascination.
"This is what I always wanted," she said softly. "To see it *work*."
The training was difficult. It required deep anatomical knowledge, perfect focus, and an understanding of how life *functioned* at a fundamental level.
But Osaze had all of that.
By the end, he could create constructs that moved independently. That *hunted*.
"You've gone further than I ever did," Eloho said. "This is where I stopped. You can go further."
Osaze realized something then. Failure wasn't the end. Eloho had hit her limit, but she didn't stop *teaching*. She didn't let her inadequacy become his ceiling. And he could build on the foundations others left behind. That was how progress worked.
The gate stood alone.
It was simple. Made of dark wood, slightly weathered, with no walls on either side. Just a gate, standing in emptiness.
And in front of it stood Òsómwèngié.
He was calm. Perfectly still. His eyes were closed, but Osaze had the distinct impression that the ancestor saw *everything*.
"You've trained with the others," Òsómwèngié said. His voice was quiet. Measured. "You've learned power. Speed. Precision. Strategy."
He opened his eyes.
"Now you will learn *mastery*."
Osaze stepped forward.
Òsómwèngié gestured to the gate. "Beyond this lies my domain. A place where power means nothing. Where strength is irrelevant. Where only understanding matters."
He placed a hand on the gate.
"Your training with me will be the hardest. Not because I will hurt you. But because I will force you to *think*."
The gate opened.
Beyond it was... stillness.
---
Captain Okoro's office was dim. The holographic terminal on his desk flickered with reports—crime rates, arrest records, incident summaries.
His wrist communicator buzzed.
"Chidi," Okoro said, accepting the call.
Chidi's face appeared in a small holographic projection. "Captain. You wanted to see me?"
"Not see. Talk." Okoro leaned back in his chair. "I need you to investigate something. Quietly."
"What is it?"
"The crusade shooting. Three days ago. New Dawn Church."
Chidi frowned. "That's already being handled by—"
"I know who's handling it. And I know they're not asking the right questions." Okoro's expression was grim. "The shooters weren't random. They were organized. And they were shouting about corporate puppets."
"So?"
"So they usually attack corporations. Not churches." Okoro folded his hands. "Maybe they know something we don't."
There was a long pause.
"You want me to investigate the Church," Chidi said slowly.
"I want you to investigate the *shooting*. Where it leads..." Okoro shrugged. "That's up to you."
"Understood."
The call ended.
Okoro stared at the terminal for a long moment.
Then he pulled up another file. One marked: **CONFIDENTIAL - EVBUOMWAN, EISOJE - DECEASED**.
He studied it in silence.
---
Hours had passed in the real world. Not days. Not weeks. Just *hours*.
But inside the ancestral realm, Osaze had lived what felt like *years*.
He sat in the center of the spiritual void, exhausted. Every muscle ached—not physically, but *spiritually*. His soul felt stretched. Worn.
But stronger.
Ìgè padded over, smaller now, manageable. The leopard bumped his head against Osaze's shoulder.
"You did well," Ìgè said quietly.
"I don't feel like I did."
"That's how you know you learned something."
Osaze looked at the seven ancestors, standing in a loose circle around him. Each one had given him something. Taught him something.
And Òsómwèngié, still standing at his gate, waiting.
"We're not done," Òsómwèngié said. "But you've learned enough to *begin*."
Osaze stood. His legs were shaky, but he forced himself upright.
"Then I'm ready."
"No," Òsómwèngié said. "But you *will* be."
The ancestral realm faded.
Osaze opened his eyes.
He was back in the apartment. The sleeping pills had worn off. His body felt... different. Not stronger, exactly. But more *efficient*. Like every part of him had been refined.
He sat up slowly, running a hand through his hair.
Then he stood, grabbed his jacket, and walked out of the room.
The main area was occupied. Kemi was at her laptop, fingers flying across the keys. Chidi and Amara were reviewing files on a holographic display. Damian stood by the window, arms crossed, staring out at the city.
Osaze stepped into the room.
They all turned.
And stared.
Kemi's fingers froze mid-keystroke. Chidi's mouth opened slightly. Amara's eyes widened.
Damian's expression shifted—just barely—into something that might've been surprise.
No one spoke.
Because it was true.
The person standing in the doorway wasn't the same one who'd taken those pills hours ago.
His posture was different. Straighter, but not stiff.
Relaxed, but ready. His eyes—those same brown eyes—held something new. Not arrogance.
Not power.
Control.
Osaze met their stares calmly.
"We have work to do," he said.
The silence stretched.
And in that silence, they all understood:
Something had changed.