The world was white.
Not the sterile white of Church halls or the blinding white of overloaded resonance. This was the white of *potential*—of sound not yet played, of notes waiting to be born. Ilias floated in it, formless, untethered from pain or weight or the memory of steel piercing his chest.
Then the white *folded*, and he stood on solid ground that wasn't ground at all.
The space was vast and intimate simultaneously, like being inside a drum and hearing its echo stretch to infinity. Bronze pillars rose around him, crowned in lightning that didn't burn. The air hummed with frequencies he shouldn't be able to hear—subsonic thrums that resonated in his bones, ultrasonic harmonics that made his teeth ache in ways that felt right.
And before him stood Orun-Fela.
The god was exactly as Ilias remembered and nothing like it. Bronze skin that seemed to shift between solid and molten. Eyes that burned with the light of a thousand rebellions. A crown of lightning that crackled with the sound of chains breaking. He wore robes that looked like captured thunder, and when he moved, reality *bent* around him.
"Welcome, child," Orun-Fela said, his voice resonating through Ilias's entire being. "We need to talk."
Ilias tried to speak, but his throat felt strange—present and absent at once. "Am I... dead?"
"Not yet. Your body clings to life in the mortal realm. But the staff—my gift—pulled your consciousness here when death's shadow fell across you."
"Then I'm dying."
"Yes."
The word hung in the space between them like a suspended note.
Ilias felt anger flare beneath his fear. "Good. Because I need answers before I go. My parents—Ademola and Funmilayo—they followed you. They *died* following you." His voice cracked. "Why didn't you save them?"
Orun-Fela's burning eyes closed for a moment. When they opened, Ilias saw something he'd never expected to see in a god: grief.
"Because I failed them."
The admission hit like a physical blow.
"Your parents were liberators. They traveled across planets, freeing the oppressed, breaking the chains of tyrants. When they heard about this world—about the Church's control, the families' exploitation, the suffering of the Morrows—they came. They had to. It was who they were."
Ilias felt something crack in his chest that had nothing to do with the staff wound.
"I guided them. Gave them strength. Whispered tactics in their dreams. They were magnificent, Ilias. Your mother's tactical mind, your father's unwavering courage—they liberated three districts before the Church even understood what was happening."
"Then what went wrong?" Ilias's fists clenched. "If you're so powerful, if you *cared*—why are they dead?"
Orun-Fela's lightning crown flared. "There are rules to divine intervention. Limits. I could not fight their battles for them. Could not shield them from every blow. When the Church finally cornered them—when Vaen himself led the execution—I could only watch."
The god's fists clenched, and thunder rolled through the space.
"I felt them die. Felt the moment their frequencies went silent. And I swore I would not make that mistake again. I would not lose another follower. Not like that. Never like that."
"So you chose me." Ilias's voice was bitter. "Their son. To finish what they started. What you couldn't protect them through."
"I chose you because you are Blessed." Orun-Fela stepped closer. "Because when I saw you in that orphanage, frightened and alone, I saw their legacy. Their fire. Their refusal to accept injustice. But I also saw something they never had."
"What?"
"Potential."
The god raised his hand, and golden light bloomed between his fingers—raw, unformed power that made Ilias's skin hum.
"Your parents never fully accessed what I offered them. They died before they could learn. Before they could grow. But you? You're their legacy. And I will not let you fall."
"At what cost?" Ilias asked quietly. "What am I paying for this power?"
Orun-Fela's expression softened. "Everything. Your anonymity. Your safety. The simple life you might have had. Freedom always has a price, Ilias. Your parents paid with their lives so others could live free. What are you willing to pay?"
The question hung between them, unanswered.
"You needed to see," the god continued. "You fight well. You improvise brilliantly. But you still think like a Tuned. Limited. Bound by elemental rules. You kneel to help someone up, and you forget to watch your back."
Ilias flinched at the accuracy of it.
"So what now? You heal me and send me back?"
"Yes. And no. I'm going to unlock more of your power. Give you access to frequencies your parents never dreamed of. But I'm also going to lock most of it away."
"What? Why?"
"Because gods are jealous. The Pantheon fights among themselves constantly. Territory disputes. Theological arguments. Power struggles. If they knew your true potential—if they understood what a fully awakened Blessed connected to me could do—some would try to recruit you. Some would try to control you. And some would kill you before you became a threat."
The weight of that settled over Ilias like a shroud.
"I'm hiding you. Letting you grow in shadows while they look elsewhere. You'll be strong—stronger than you were—but not so strong that you draw their attention. Not yet."
"How strong?"
Orun-Fela smiled, and it was the expression of a revolutionary seeing a plan come together. "Strong enough to survive. Strong enough to protect those you love. Strong enough to *start* changing this world."
He placed his hand on Ilias's chest, over the space where the staff had pierced him. Golden light flooded through Ilias's being—not healing, but *transforming*. He felt frequencies unlock inside him like doors opening in sequence. Fire-water-earth-shadow-light-air, and then beyond. Frequencies that had no name, no element, no rules except the ones he made.
The power of freedom.
To bend resonance itself. To manipulate reality's underlying "music." To connect frequencies that shouldn't connect, mix elements in impossible ways, rewrite the rules while everyone else played by them.
But even as the power flooded in, he felt walls go up. Barriers. Locks. Most of it sealed away, inaccessible, waiting for a time when he could wield it without painting a target on his back.
"This is just the beginning. There's so much more. But first, you have to survive. You have to learn. You have to become the liberator your parents died trying to be."
Ilias felt tears on his face—or the spiritual equivalent of them. "I don't know if I can."
"You already have. You went after Mira when everyone else would have let her face her past alone. You knelt to help her up, even though it left you vulnerable. That moment—that choice—is why you're worthy of this power. Not because you're strong. Because you care."
Before Ilias could respond, light bloomed behind Orun-Fela. The space shifted, and suddenly there were others present—figures of breathtaking beauty and terrible power. Goddesses, Ilias realized. Orun-Fela's wives, each radiating their own distinct frequency.
One stepped forward.
She was fierce and graceful simultaneously, warrior and poet, strength wrapped in compassion. Her skin seemed to shimmer like sunlight on water, and her eyes held the kind of ancient wisdom that came from watching civilizations rise and fall.
"I am Ayọlá," she said, her voice like wind chimes made of tempered steel. "And I have been watching."
"Watching?"
"The red-haired warrior. The one who held your hand as you died. Who broke so completely that even I felt it from here."
Ilias's chest tightened. "Seraph."
"She loves you with a ferocity that reminds me of myself. That kind of love—willing to shatter for someone—is rare. Sacred. She deserves strength to match her heart."
She looked to Orun-Fela, and something passed between them—warmth, challenge, the familiarity of centuries. "You coddle your followers," she said, not unkindly. "Let me give her what she's earned."
Orun-Fela's expression softened with affection. "You always see the warriors before I do."
"Because you see the dreamers." Ayọlá smiled. "We balance each other."
She turned back to Ilias. "She'll need power to protect you when you cannot protect yourself. And when gods come calling—and they will—she'll stand between them and you. That's the kind of love worth blessing. But it will cost her too. Anonymity. Peace. The quiet life she might have wanted."
"What did you—" Ilias started.
"A gift," Ayọlá said simply. "She'll discover it when she needs it most. And she'll pay the price willingly, because that's what love is. Freedom to choose your own chains."
The warmth of the blessing still lingered when the temperature in the space dropped.
Orun-Fela's expression shifted—not fear, but acknowledgment. The lightning in his crown crackled louder.
"He's here."
The air itself seemed to compress, and then *he* appeared.
Ogun.
The God of War, Iron, and Creation stepped into the space like he owned it—and perhaps, Ilias thought, he did. He was bronze-skinned and crowned in lightning similar to Orun-Fela, but where the freedom god burned with inspiration, Ogun radiated inevitability. His eyes were molten gold. His presence was weight—the gravitational pull of conflict itself, of forge-fires and battlefields, of creation through destruction.
He wore no weapons, because he was the weapon.
"I noticed what you did," Ogun said, his voice resonating like hammers on anvils.
Orun-Fela didn't flinch. "I won't lose another follower. Not again."
"I know. Admirable. Sentimental. Very you."
"Is there a problem?"
"No. Do what you must. But remember—where there's rebellion, there will always be war. And war? War is where I thrive."
He stepped closer, and Ilias felt the difference in power like standing next to the sun versus a candle. Both gods were powerful, but Ogun was something else.
"I don't concern myself with what gods like you do. You're a musician who ascended through art. I respect that. But I am a Force of Existence. War. Iron. Creation through destruction. I was forged in the universe's first conflict and will endure until its last."
He looked directly at Orun-Fela. "We are not the same tier, freedom god."
Orun-Fela held his gaze steadily. "I know."
For a moment, tension hung in the air like a suspended chord. Then Ogun's expression shifted—not softening, exactly, but becoming less intense.
"My avatar is already pissed. Big brother rage. The kind that breaks cities if not properly directed." His molten eyes found Ilias. "You should wake up before he kills someone who doesn't deserve it. War loves grief. I'd rather he channel it properly."
"Agreed," Orun-Fela said.
Ogun nodded once—a gesture of respect between unequals who both knew it—and then he was simply gone, leaving only the faint smell of heated metal.
Ayọlá touched Ilias's shoulder gently. "Go, child. Your family needs you."
"Will I remember this?" Ilias asked.
"Every word. Every revelation. Every unlock. But also remember the locks. You're stronger now, but not invincible. And the moment you reveal too much—"
"Gods will come for me."
"Yes. And they'll demand their own prices for your freedom."
Ilias nodded slowly. "Then I'll be careful. I'll grow in shadows. I'll protect the people I love. And I'll finish what my parents started."
The god smiled, proud and sad simultaneously. "That's all I ask."
The white space began to collapse inward, reality folding back on itself. The last thing Ilias saw was Ayọlá's gentle smile, Orun-Fela's crown of lightning, and the goddesses standing like pillars of starlight.
Then—
---
The first thing Ilias felt was weight.
His chest. His lungs. The gravity of flesh and bone pulling him down into a body that remembered dying. Then pain—sharp, bright, screaming—as his heart kicked against ribs that had broken around steel. He gasped, dragging air through a throat that felt like fire, and every nerve ending lit up at once.
His eyes flew open to Seraph's face.
Tear-streaked. Devastated. Beautiful.
Power radiated from him in waves that made everyone step back except her. She gripped his hand tighter, like she could anchor him to life through sheer will.
"Welcome back," she whispered, her voice breaking. "Don't you ever do that again."
Ilias looked at her—really looked—and saw the tear-tracks, the devastation, the fierce love that had kept her anchored while he died. He felt something warm flowing through their connection, something golden and new that he didn't understand yet.
"I won't," he managed, his voice rough. "I promise."
Then his gaze found Mira, still shaking against the wall, and his expression gentled despite the pain. "It's okay. I'm okay."
Mira made a sound that was half-sob, half-laugh, and buried her face in her hands.
Kojo stared at his brother, relief and residual rage warring across his face. His gauntlets still flickered with barely contained power. "You better have a good explanation."
Ilias tried to sit up, winced as his chest protested, then succeeded with Seraph's help. He felt the new frequencies humming beneath his skin—unlocked doors, sealed vaults, and the echo of divine voices still ringing in his ears.
He looked around at all of them—his found family, battered and broken but still standing.
"I met the gods," he said quietly. "Orun-Fela. Ayọlá. Ogun himself."
Silence.
"And?" Kojo pressed.
"And this war just got a lot more complicated." Ilias met his brother's eyes. "Because they're watching now. All of them. And we need to be ready for what comes next."
Reverb's helmet displayed a question mark. "Which is?"
Ilias felt the weight of locked power inside him, the promise of strength he couldn't yet access, and the knowledge that gods were jealous, petty, and dangerous.
"Everything," he said. "Everything comes next.