They gathered where no human foot could stand.
Deep beneath the oldest mountain, in a hollow carved before names existed, the surviving alụsị assembled—not in bodies, but in presences. The air there was thick with divinity and decay, heavy enough to crush mortal lungs. Stones floated. Shadows bent inward, listening.
This was not a council of unity.
It was a council of panic.
"The child has crossed the second boundary," thundered Amadioha's remnant, his voice crackling like distant storms trapped in dying clouds. "He has wielded god-death without permission."
"Permission?" hissed a river-spirit whose waters had turned black from Idemili's passage. "Who among us still grants permission?"
Murmurs rippled through the chamber—fear disguised as argument.
At the center, a basin of living earth pulsed. Within it, images formed: villages broken in half, a holy army erased, a boy standing amidst ruin with a blade that swallowed reality.
"Heavenbreaker," one whispered.
The name recoiled through the chamber like a curse.
---
Far above, Chukwudi screamed awake.
He clutched his chest as if hands were squeezing his heart from the inside. The night around him felt crowded, unseen eyes pressing close.
The Snake Mother was already there.
"They are watching you," she said.
"Who?" he gasped.
"All of them."
She hesitated—something she rarely did.
"They debate whether you should be allowed to exist."
---
The council's fear turned quickly to resolve.
"He is not just a weapon," said an earth-deity whose roots had been burned by human forges. "He is a precedent."
"If one child can command the land without becoming bound to shrine or sacrifice," another growled, "then the old order is already dead."
A silence fell.
Then the unthinkable was spoken.
"Kill the Snake Woman," said a voice like grinding stone. "Sever the source."
The basin trembled.
Some recoiled.
Others nodded.
---
Chukwudi felt it then—a sharp, icy certainty cutting through his veins.
"They're coming for you," he said, staring at his mother.
The Snake Mother's eyes softened.
"They always were," she replied.
She knelt before him, coils folding with reverent slowness.
"You must listen now," she said. "What you are becoming was never meant to stay whole."
She pressed her forehead to his.
"If they take me," she continued, "the earth will try to devour you. You will either ascend… or shatter."
Chukwudi's breath shook.
"I won't let them take you."
Her smile was sad.
"You may not have a choice."
---
That night, the cursed children dreamed the same dream.
A mountain cracking open.
A woman screaming as roots pierced her body.
A boy standing alone while the world decided whether to end.
Adaeze woke sobbing ash.
"They're going to kill her," she whispered.
Chukwudi rose.
The blade whispered from where it lay.
For the first time, he did not reach for it.
"I won't wait," he said.
The earth stirred uneasily beneath his feet.
---
Somewhere between worlds, Idemili Ọbara laughed softly, braiding blood through her fingers.
"Good," she murmured. "Let the council act."
She looked toward the sleeping land.
"Let the child choose."
---
As dawn bled into the sky, Chukwudi stepped forward—away from safety, away from childhood, toward a fate no god had planned for.
Behind him, the Snake Mother watched.
Ahead of him, the earth held its breath.
Because if he took one more step—
The war would no longer be about survival.
It would be about who gets to write the law of the world.