The Western Courtyard was made of compacted earth and stone, scarred by generations of skirmishes when the estate was contested territory. It was Nguvu's sanctuary—a place where the rigid discipline of his Role could finally be unleashed.
He began with Boxing, his movements derived from the study of gorillas. The air cracked with the force of his punches, and his feet were rooted firmly to the earth, creating small impact craters with every pivot. His Blue Aura wasn't just humming; it was a roaring, protective shroud of violent energy, a testament to his Warlord mastery.
He needed to bleed the Blue. He needed to transfer the frustration of the pillow wall and the horticultural invasion into raw Ase expenditure.
He was in the middle of a wrestling sequence, mimicking the complex grappling of monkeys, when the forest edge recoiled.
The dense growth that marked the boundary of the wild Neutral Lands suddenly shifted. It wasn't the wind. It was life—or rather, corrupted anti-life—responding to the sheer density of Nguvu's aggressive Ase.
A massive, gnarled root system, centuries old and twisted with bitterness, began to heave itself from the earth. The trunk was covered in patchy moss and weeping a dark, sticky sap—a visual representation of Iku, the entropy that resulted from sin. This was a Wood-Griot, a Fable that had mutated into a cryptid, sad and corrupted, drawn out by the Warlord's pure, unchecked power.
It was ancient, withered plant-life. It was the antithesis of everything Amamihe worked for.
The Wood-Griot let out a silent scream, a mental shockwave that struck Nguvu's Dapabie (Mental Realm). It saw Nguvu as a raging wildfire, ready to consume its slow, dying existence.
Nguvu didn't hesitate. He didn't see an ancient, corrupted Fable; he saw a release valve.
"I will not be denied my discipline!" he roared.
He dropped his Martial Art stance and unsummoned his Weapon Art. The shimmering, colossal seven-foot Konda of pure Blue Aura vanished as he slammed his hand into his thigh, grabbing his artifact.
The Djed-Hedj.
The heavy war mace, shaped like an Egyptian Djed pillar, felt perfectly balanced in his immense grip. The Djed-Hedj was designed to generate electricity, an inorganic power perfect for destroying the organic Iku corruption.
Nguvu's Blue Aura surged into the weapon. The mace crackled with golden energy—the cosmic energy absorbed by his Silhouette melanin. He became a conduit of thunder.
He didn't need tactics.
He just needed release.
The Wood-Griot lunged, its gnarled limbs ending in scything thorns. Nguvu met the attack not with a dodge, but with a primal, focused thrust. He channeled his frustration—the suffocating heat in the bed, the sight of the vines in the Atrium—all into the strike.
The Djed-Hedj connected with the Wood-Griot's chest.
There was no sound of wood breaking. Only a deafening CRACK of pure, unfettered electricity. The mace vented its stored cosmic energy in a localized storm. The Iku-corrupted Wood-Griot didn't shatter; it simply evaporated, turning into fine, smoking ash that was instantly scattered by the shockwave.
Nguvu stood in the quiet courtyard, breathing heavily. The fight had lasted less than ten seconds, but the release was absolute. He felt clean, centered, and physically spent. He had exercised his Makoma (Destiny).
He glanced at the forest edge, where a large patch of earth was now blackened and dead. He had done his job. He had neutralized a threat.
Inside the house, Amamihe was arranging the new furniture in her designated Atrium. Imani was still on her shoulder, inspecting a new flower.
Suddenly, Amamihe gasped. The mug slipped from her fingers, shattering on the mossy turf, which immediately began consuming the porcelain shards.
The Ase in the house—the rich, vital life force she had painstakingly cultivated—shivered violently. She felt a sickening wave of negative, dying Ase—the residue of the Wood-Griot's violent disintegration. She could feel the Iku left behind, a stain on the environment, cold and destructive.
Her Indigo Aura flared defensively, trying to absorb the shock.
—'A sudden, immense cessation of life. A pure power spike.
He has killed something very old.'— Imani's voice resonated with unusual concern.
Amamihe spun toward the Western Courtyard. Her Brown Iris eyes narrowed, reflecting a potent mix of Red Huenergy (Anger) and Green Huenergy (Fear for the land).
He had done it. He had left the marital tension in the most destructive, Warrior way possible, and he had done it right on the edge of her new home.
She knew instinctively that Nguvu had murdered a piece of the ancient local landscape.
The diplomatic relationship they were struggling to maintain was about to face its first genuine, Role-based crisis.