The gate opened.
Osaze stepped through, and the world shifted.
Òsómwèngié's domain was unlike any of the others. It wasn't a battlefield. It wasn't a temple. It wasn't a cavern or a savanna.
It was a garden.
Simple. Precise. Every stone placed with intention. Every plant trimmed with purpose. A small stream ran through the center, the water clear and cold. Cherry blossoms drifted on a wind that felt *real*.
And in the center of it all stood Òsómwèngié.
He was different here. More solid. More *present*. His eyes were open now, dark and impossibly calm. He wore simple robes—not African, not entirely Asian, but something between. Something *his*.
"Sit," Òsómwèngié said.
Osaze sat.
For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the stream, the wind, the distant rustle of leaves.
"The others taught you power," Òsómwèngié said finally. "They taught you creation. Destruction. Control. All necessary."
He looked at Osaze.
"I will teach you *efficiency*."
---
"Create a blade."
Osaze blinked. "What kind?"
"Curved. Single-edged. You've seen them before." Òsómwèngié gestured. "Create one. Now."
Osaze concentrated. Blood pooled in his hand, shaping itself. He began to add structural reinforcements—
"No."
Osaze froze.
"Only blood," Òsómwèngié said. "No additions. No improvements. Just blood."
"But it won't be as strong—"
"I did not ask for strength. I asked for a blade." Òsómwèngié's voice was calm. Immovable. "Create one. Only blood."
Osaze hesitated, then let the reinforcements dissolve. Pure blood formed in his hands, taking the curved shape. It felt fragile. Too light.
Òsómwèngié examined it. "Good. Now make it durable."
"Without reinforcements?"
"Without reinforcements."
Osaze stared at the blade. How was he supposed to—
"Blood is not weak," Òsómwèngié said. "You treat it as a foundation to be improved. But blood itself can be enough. You simply do not understand *how* yet."
He took the blade from Osaze's hand.
"Watch."
The blade shifted. Not in shape, but in *quality*. It became denser. Tighter. Binding without losing fluidity.
When Òsómwèngié handed it back, it felt completely different. Heavier. Solid. *Real*.
"This is mastery," Òsómwèngié said. "Not adding more. Not compensating. *Refining* what you already have."
He drew his own blade—identical in appearance, but radiating presence.
"Now," Òsómwèngié said, "we begin."
---
The first cut was shallow.
Just a nick across Osaze's forearm. Barely noticeable.
Osaze glanced at it, frowning. It didn't even hurt that much. Just a thin line of red.
"Is that it?" he asked.
Òsómwèngié didn't respond. He simply waited.
Ten seconds later, Osaze felt it.
*Weakness*.
His arm grew heavy. His vision blurred slightly. His heart rate spiked.
He looked down.
The cut was still small. Still shallow. But blood flowed. Not dramatically. *Efficiently*. Like his body had forgotten how to stop.
"What—" Osaze stumbled.
Another cut. His calf. Just as shallow.
More blood. More weakness.
"You're..." Osaze's legs gave out. He caught himself on one knee. "You're making me bleed out."
"Yes."
A third cut. His shoulder.
The dizziness came. The cold creeping into his extremities. His body prioritizing what mattered, shutting down everything else.
He tried to heal. Blood Transfiguration surged.
The wounds wouldn't close.
"The Bleeding Path is not about power," Òsómwèngié said, walking slowly around him. "It is about *precision*."
Another cut. Osaze's side.
He fell forward, catching himself on his hands. Blood pooled beneath him. Not a lot. Not enough to look dramatic.
But enough.
"Your opponents will not know they are dying," Òsómwèngié continued. "They will feel cuts. Minor. Annoying."
Another cut. Osaze's thigh.
"And then they will fall. And they will not understand why."
Osaze's vision darkened. His hands shook. His body was cold.
He looked up at Òsómwèngié, who stood above him, blade clean, expression unchanged.
"This is the first lesson," Òsómwèngié said.
Osaze collapsed.
Everything went black.
---
He woke up.
The garden was exactly as it had been. The stream still flowed. The cherry blossoms still drifted.
And Òsómwèngié stood in the same spot, waiting.
"Again," Òsómwèngié said.
---
Osaze died three more times before he asked.
The fourth resurrection. He woke, gasping, staring up at the cherry blossoms overhead.
"Why does your domain look like this?" Osaze asked, still catching his breath.
Òsómwèngié paused. For the first time, something flickered in his expression.
"Curiosity," he said. "Good. You're still thinking."
He gestured to the garden around them. "This was my last home."
Osaze sat up slowly. "Your last home?"
Òsómwèngié nodded. He walked to the stream, crouched beside it, let his fingers trail through the water.
"I was taken by sea," he said quietly. "Chained. Packed below deck with others. We crossed the ocean for weeks. Some were thrown overboard when they grew sick. When they grew loud. When space was needed."
His voice was matter-of-fact. Like reading from a ledger.
"I fought to survive. Not with honor. Not with dignity." He looked at his reflection in the water. "I did what was necessary. Ate when others wouldn't. Stayed silent when others screamed. Kept breathing when others gave up."
"When we landed, I was sold. Then sold again. I ended up bonded—given a blade, told to fight, told to kill. So I learned. Not from masters. Not from schools. From staying alive one more day."
He stood, turning back to Osaze.
"I learned the blade because dying was the alternative. I refined it because efficiency meant survival. And when I was finally free—when my body gave out—I died here. In a garden. In a place like this."
Òsómwèngié gestured to the space around them.
"Peaceful. Quiet. Far from the ships. Far from the blood."
He met Osaze's eyes.
"This is what I chose to remember. Not the chains. Not the screaming. Not the bodies thrown into the sea."
He drew his blade again.
"Now," Òsómwèngié said. "Again."
---
Osaze died eleven times in the first week.
Not from massive wounds. Not from dramatic fights.
From *bleeding*.
Each time, the cuts were different. Different locations. Different angles. But always the same result: slow, efficient death.
Òsómwèngié didn't gloat. Didn't explain. He simply killed Osaze, waited for him to resurrect, and killed him again.
By the fifteenth death, Osaze started to understand.
It wasn't about strength. It wasn't about speed.
It was about *knowing*.
"You're learning," Òsómwèngié said after the twenty-third death. "Slower than I'd hoped, but learning."
Osaze glared at him from the ground, blood pooling around his body. "How... many times..."
"Until you stop dying."
---
Two months passed in the spiritual realm.
Two months of dying. Of bleeding out. Of feeling his body shut down over and over.
But Osaze was adapting.
He learned to recognize the cuts. To predict them. To *counter* them.
He started dodging. Not all of them—Òsómwèngié was too fast, too precise. But enough to survive longer.
"Good," Òsómwèngié said. "Now attack."
Osaze created his own blade. Pure blood, compressed and refined the way Òsómwèngié had shown him.
He swung.
Òsómwèngié sidestepped effortlessly.
"Where are you aiming?"
"Your shoulder."
"Why?"
"Because—" Osaze hesitated. "Because it's exposed?"
"Wrong."
Òsómwèngié's blade flicked out. Three cuts. Osaze felt the weakness flood through him immediately.
Osaze collapsed again.
Three months.
Osaze was dying less frequently now. Once every few days instead of multiple times daily.
He was learning to read Òsómwèngié's movements. The slight shift of weight. The angle of his blade. The way his eyes tracked.
And he was learning to apply what he'd learned himself.
His cuts were clumsy at first. Too deep or too shallow. Wrong angles. Wrong locations.
But Òsómwèngié was patient. In his own way.
"Precision," he would say. "Not force. Precision."
Four months.
Osaze managed to cut Òsómwèngié.
It was shallow. Barely a scratch across his forearm.
But blood flowed.
Òsómwèngié looked at the cut, then at Osaze.
"Better," he said.
That was the closest thing to praise Osaze had received.
Five months.
Osaze was overwhelmed.
Òsómwèngié had changed tactics. No longer measured. No longer patient.
He attacked from every direction. Relentless. Brutal.
Osaze blocked. Dodged. Countered.
But the cuts kept coming.
His arm. His leg. His side. His neck.
He was bleeding. Badly.
His spiritual power was draining. He'd used too much maintaining his blade, healing superficial wounds, trying to keep up.
He was going to die again.
No.
The thought came suddenly, desperately.
Not like this.
He couldn't block anymore. Couldn't dodge. His body was too slow, too weak.
But his *blood* wasn't.
Osaze didn't think. He *acted*.
He poured spiritual power into his blade.
The blade flared. Spiritual energy wrapped around it like a second edge, invisible but present.
Osaze swung.
The blade didn't touch Òsómwèngié.
But the *energy* did.
A cut appeared across Òsómwèngié's chest. Clean. Precise.
Blood flowed.
Òsómwèngié stopped.
He looked at the cut. Then at Osaze.
"You've grasped the basics," he said.
Osaze collapsed to his knees, gasping.
Òsómwèngié sheathed his blade.
"You've been fighting with physical constructs. But blood is also spirit. It carries life. It carries power."
He gestured to his chest, where the cut was already healing.
Osaze stared at his own blade. The spiritual energy had faded, but he could still *feel* it.
"This is where your true training begins," Òsómwèngié said.
Six months.
Òsómwèngié taught him distance.
How to launch cutting attacks from meters away. How to infuse spiritual power into slashes that traveled through air, through obstacles, through *defenses*.
"Your opponent blocks your blade," Òsómwèngié said. "But the *spirit* passes through."
He demonstrated. His blade swung horizontally. The physical edge stopped against a tree.
But the tree split anyway, spiritual energy carving clean through.
Osaze practiced until his spiritual reserves ached. Until his soul felt raw.
But he learned.
---
Seven months.
Òsómwèngié attacked from all directions simultaneously.
Above. Below. Left. Right. Behind.
Spiritual slashes filled the air, invisible but *deadly*.
Osaze moved.
Not thinking. Not planning. *Reacting*.
His blade became an extension of himself. He deflected with precision. He dodged with minimal movement, conserving energy. He countered with his own spiritual cuts, forcing Òsómwèngié to evade.
The fight was beautiful. Brutal. Efficient.
When it ended, both of them were bleeding.
But both of them were standing.
Òsómwèngié nodded slowly. "You've adapted."
He sheathed his blade.
"You are ready."
---
They sat by the stream.
The water was red with their blood, but it flowed away, carried downstream, leaving only clarity behind.
"What will you do," Òsómwèngié asked, "when you face Ezekiel?"
Osaze didn't hesitate. "Kill him. Get revenge."
"Is that what your father would have wanted?"
Osaze's jaw tightened. "My father is dead. He doesn't get a say anymore."
Òsómwèngié was silent for a long moment.
"Then perhaps," he said quietly, "you will create a path he would have been proud of."
He stood.
"Come. You have more to learn."
---
Another month passed.
Òsómwèngié pushed him harder than ever before.
They fought from dawn to dusk in the spiritual realm. Osaze bled. Died. Resurrected. Fought again.
But each time, he improved.
His cuts became cleaner. His spiritual attacks more efficient. His movements more precise.
By the end of the eighth month, Osaze could fight Òsómwèngié to a standstill.
Not win. But survive. Adapt. Counter.
"You are ready," Òsómwèngié said finally.
"For what?"
"To leave." Òsómwèngié sheathed his blade for the last time. "You have learned what I can teach. The rest, you will learn through *living*."
He placed a hand on Osaze's shoulder. It was the first time he'd touched him outside of combat.
"Remember," Òsómwèngié said quietly. "Efficiency is not just about killing quickly. It is about doing *only* what is necessary. No more. No less."
"I'll remember," Osaze said.
Òsómwèngié nodded. Then he stepped back, and the gate began to open.
"One more thing," Òsómwèngié said.
Osaze paused.
"Your father loved you. Whatever you choose to do with that love—honor it, weaponize it, or let it guide you—is your decision. But do not pretend it doesn't exist."
Osaze swallowed hard. "I won't."
"Good."
The gate opened fully.
And Osaze stepped through.
---
The ancestral realm faded.
Osaze opened his eyes.
He was back in the apartment. The same spot where he'd sat down hours ago.
But he felt different. Profoundly different.
His body moved with precision he hadn't possessed before. Every motion intentional. Efficient. Nothing wasted.
He stood, and the world felt *slower*. Not actually slower—his perception had simply sharpened.
He walked out of the room.
---
They were all there. Waiting.
Kemi looked up from her laptop. Chidi and Amara stopped their conversation mid-sentence. Damian turned from the window.
"Osaze?" Kemi said carefully. "What... what happened in there?"
Osaze considered the question. "I had help."
"Help?" Amara frowned. "From who?"
"The ancestors." It wasn't a lie. Just incomplete.
Damian's eyes narrowed. "An hour. You were in there for an hour."
"Was it?" Osaze's voice was calm. Measured. "Felt longer."
"This change..." Chidi shook his head. "This is too much for an hour."
Osaze met his gaze evenly. "Time works differently in the spiritual realm."
Kemi stood, walking over to him. She studied his face. His eyes. His posture.
"You're different," she said softly.
"I had to be."
She reached out, touching his arm. "Are you... still you?"
Osaze placed his hand over hers. "Yes. Just... refined."
She didn't look entirely convinced, but she nodded.
"We have work to do," Osaze said, releasing her hand. "Have you tracked down the location?"
Kemi blinked at the subject change, then nodded. "Yeah. I managed to trace one of the shooters' vehicles. It pinged at a location in the industrial district. Warehouse area."
She pulled up a holographic map on her laptop. A red marker blinked on the screen.
"Here. Abandoned manufacturing plant. Power signatures suggest people are inside, but it's masked. Someone doesn't want this place found."
"How did you find it then?" Chidi asked.
Kemi grinned. "Because I'm better than whoever's trying to hide it."
"Can you confirm it's the shooters?" Amara asked.
"Not confirmed. But the vehicle matches the description from the crusade attack. And the area is known for..." she hesitated. "...resistance activity."
"ZER0," Damian said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
"What?" Kemi asked.
"ZER0. That's what they call themselves." Damian's expression was grim. "A resistance group. Or terrorists, depending on who you ask. They've been attacking corporate facilities for months. Sometimes government sites."
"But they attacked the Church," Chidi said. "That's different."
"Maybe they know something we don't," Amara said quietly.
"Or maybe," Osaze said, "someone wanted them to attack the Church."
Everyone fell silent.
"What do you mean?" Kemi asked.
"Think about it. ZER0 attacks corporations. Always. Then suddenly they attack a church crusade? In public? With media coverage?" Osaze's eyes narrowed. "That's not their pattern. Someone manipulated them."
"To what end?" Chidi asked.
"To unite the Church, corporations, and government against a common enemy," Osaze said. "Create a threat. Manufacture a crisis. Then use it to justify... anything."
Damian nodded slowly. "Martial law. Crackdowns. Hunting down 'old bloodlines' under the guise of public safety."
"Exactly."
Kemi stared at the map. "So we're walking into a trap."
"Maybe," Osaze said. "Or maybe we're walking into the only lead we have."
He looked at each of them. "Either way, we're going. Tonight."
---
Across the city, in the depths of the abandoned manufacturing plant, a meeting was underway.
The room was large. Industrial. Pipes ran along the ceiling, and old machinery sat dormant in the corners.
But the center of the room was alive with people.
Dozens of them. Maybe more. All wearing masks.
Not elaborate masks. Not decorative.
Simple white masks. Featureless except for a single symbol painted in black across the face:
**0**
Zero.
Nothing.
The absence of one. The rejection of unity. The embodiment of resistance.
They sat in loose circles, weapons laid out on tables. Rifles. Explosives. Blueprints. Plans.
At the front of the room, standing on a raised platform, was a figure larger than the rest. Their mask was the same, but their presence was different. Commanding.
"Brothers. Sisters," the figure said. Their voice was distorted, mechanically altered. "We gather here because we have been broken."
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the crowd.
"Oppressed. Used. Experimented on." The figure's voice grew harder. "They took us from our homes. From our families. They tested their poisons on us. Their drugs. Their weapons."
Someone in the crowd shouted, "They treated us like animals!"
"Worse than animals," the figure corrected. "Animals they would at least kill quickly. But us? They kept us alive. Suffering. Bleeding. Useful."
The crowd stirred with rage.
"The corporations used us for labor. The government used us for experiments. The Church—" the figure's voice dripped with venom, "—the Church used us to test their 'holy' weapons. To see how much divine power a human body could withstand before it broke."
Fists slammed on tables. Weapons rattled.
"But we are here now," the figure continued. "We survived. We escaped. We found each other in the darkness."
They raised their arms. "And we found her."
The crowd fell silent, reverent.
"ZER0," someone whispered.
"Yes. ZER0." The figure nodded. "Our leader. Our savior. The one who pulled us from the abyss and gave us purpose."
A door at the back of the room opened.
Everyone turned.
A figure entered. Smaller than the speaker, but radiating an entirely different kind of presence. Calm. Controlled. Absolute.
Their mask was different. Not white. Black. With the zero symbol etched in silver, gleaming in the dim light.
ZER0.
The crowd rose to their feet as one.
ZER0 walked to the platform, movements fluid and precise. When they spoke, their voice was also distorted, but clearer. Like the distortion was a choice, not a necessity.
"Sit," ZER0 said.
Everyone sat immediately.
ZER0 surveyed the room. "You have suffered. I know this. I have suffered too."
Silence.
"They took everything from us. Our freedom. Our dignity. Our humanity." ZER0's hands clenched. "They turned us into numbers. Experiments. Resources."
"But we are not numbers."
The crowd leaned forward.
"We are not experiments. We are not resources." ZER0's voice grew stronger. "We are nothing. And from nothing, we will tear down everything."
Cheers erupted.
ZER0 raised a hand. Silence fell instantly.
"The crusade attack was the beginning. The Church is scared now. The corporations are mobilizing. The government is drafting new laws." ZER0 gestured to a holographic display that flickered to life behind them.
Images appeared. Corporate buildings. Government facilities. Church ministries.
"They think they can control us with fear. With violence. With law." ZER0's voice was ice. "They are wrong."
The figure who had been speaking earlier stepped forward. "What are our orders?"
ZER0 turned to them. "We continue. Hit them where it hurts. Disrupt their supply lines. Destroy their infrastructure. Make them bleed."
"And the attacker?" someone asked from the crowd. "The one from that fought Ezekiel first ?"
ZER0 paused. "He is... irrelevant for now. His fight is with the Church. Let him have it."
"But if he gets in our way?"
"Then we remove him." ZER0's tone was matter-of-fact. "But not yet. Let him draw their attention. Let him be the distraction while we work."
"What about the corporations? They'll come after us."
"Let them," ZER0 said. "We are prepared. We have been preparing for years."
They gestured to the crowd. "Each of you was chosen. Not randomly. Not by chance. You were chosen because you survived. Because you are strong.
Because you refuse to be erased."
"We are ZER0," they said. "We are the absence of unity. The rejection of their order. We are nothing—and from nothing, we will rebuild."
The crowd roared.
ZER0 gestured to the symbol on their mask.
"Zero. Not one. Not together under their rules. Not bound by their systems." They spread their arms. "We are the void that will swallow them whole."
The crowd chanted: "ZER0! ZER0! ZER0!"
ZER0 let the chant continue for a moment, then raised a hand again.
Silence.
"Prepare yourselves," ZER0 said quietly.
"The next phase begins soon. And when it does, the world will remember what happens when you push people into the dark."
They turned to leave, then paused.
"They made us nothing," ZER0 said. "So we became nothing. And nothing... is unstoppable."
The crowd erupted into cheers as ZER0 disappeared through the door.
The figure on the platform turned back to the crowd.
"You heard our leader," they said. "Prepare. We move in three days."
The room dissolved into organized chaos. People gathering weapons, reviewing plans, coordinating attacks.
All of them wearing the same mask.
All of them united in purpose.
All of them ready to burn the world that had burned them first.