The hunters came at dawn.
Not with chants.
Not with prayers.
They came with confidence.
That was what terrified Chukwudi the most.
---
The earth woke him before the sun did.
A deep, grinding unease rolled beneath his bones, like stone teeth gnashing far away. He gasped awake, dirt clinging to his palms, his breath steaming in the cold morning air.
"They're close," he whispered.
Around him, the cursed children stirred. Adaeze sat upright at once, ash already trickling from the corners of her eyes. The twins stopped whispering. The shadowless boy stared west, face pale.
The Snake Mother rose slowly, her form half-human, half-coil, eyes burning with a warning light Chukwudi had never seen before.
"These are not ordinary men," she said.
"They have learned how to hurt us."
---
The hunters numbered twelve.
They wore charms stitched into their skin, crosses and talismans hanging together without irony. Their leader carried Ọkụ-ala wrapped in red cloth, as though ashamed of what it was.
The blade screamed softly even while hidden.
Behind them walked missionaries chanting psalms through clenched teeth, their eyes wild with terror and purpose. One dragged a bound spirit—half-formed, shrieking—used as bait.
"They think fear makes them righteous," the Snake Mother hissed.
The earth trembled.
But the hunters did not stop.
They advanced.
---
The first shot rang out.
A gun blessed with ground bone and oil from burned shrines.
The bullet struck the Snake Mother's shoulder.
She screamed.
The sound shattered trees.
Chukwudi froze.
He had never heard her scream before.
Blood—dark, shimmering—spilled onto the soil. The ground recoiled like a wounded animal.
The hunters cheered.
"See?" one cried. "They bleed!"
Something broke inside Chukwudi.
---
He moved without thinking.
The earth rose to meet him, wrapping his legs, lifting him above the clearing. His eyes burned gold-brown, pupils splitting like a serpent's.
"Stop," he said.
His voice was wrong—layered, echoing, ancient.
The hunters hesitated.
Then the leader raised Ọkụ-ala.
"Kill the boy," he ordered. "Before he grows."
The blade screamed louder.
---
Adaeze stepped forward.
Ash poured from her eyes in a river. She sobbed—not in fear, but in rage—and the tears touched the ground.
Everything they touched burned without fire.
Two hunters screamed as their feet turned to charcoal, flesh crumbling to dust. One fell, clawing at his face as his skin peeled away in grey flakes.
The twins whispered.
Graves opened.
Hands reached up.
Missionaries fled, tripping over roots that moved like snakes.
Still, the leader advanced.
Faithless. Fearless.
Mad.
---
Chukwudi felt the pull then.
The choice.
If he killed them, there would be no turning back. The earth would remember him not as guardian—but as executioner.
The Snake Mother met his gaze.
"Do not hesitate," she said softly. "Hesitation is how gods die."
The leader lunged.
Ọkụ-ala struck Chukwudi's chest.
Pain exploded.
Not flesh-pain.
Soul-pain.
He screamed as something inside him tore—old, deep, sacred.
The blade drank.
The hunters rejoiced.
Then the earth roared.
---
The ground swallowed the leader whole.
Not quickly.
Slowly.
His screams echoed as the soil closed over his mouth, filling his lungs, cracking his bones. Ọkụ-ala fell, embedded in the dirt, still screaming.
The remaining hunters ran.
Too late.
Roots pierced throats. Stones crushed skulls. The earth did not rage—it judged.
Silence followed.
Chukwudi collapsed.
---
He woke shaking.
The cursed children stood around him, terrified and awed.
The Snake Mother knelt.
"You felt it," she said.
He nodded weakly.
"They can kill us," he whispered.
"Yes," she replied. "And now they will try harder."
Chukwudi looked at the blood-soaked ground, at the half-buried god-killing blade still screaming in the soil.
He understood then.
This war would not be won by hiding.
Or mercy.
Or silence.
It would be won by becoming something the world had never survived before.
He closed his eyes.
And the earth listened.