The venue was upscale. The kind of place where deals were made over cocktails and appearances mattered more than substance. Chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, holographic art installations shifted through abstract patterns, and the guests moved like they owned the world.
Sergeant Amara Nkosi stood near the bar, wearing trousers, a fitted shirt, and a cropped jacket. Functional. Comfortable. She wasn't here to impress anyone.
She was here for work.
Her eyes tracked Bọlánlé across the room. Chidi's wife looked stunning—sleek black dress, heels, makeup perfect. She moved through the crowd with practiced ease, smiling at strangers, playing the part.
And then *he* arrived.
Tall. Well-dressed. Igbo, clearly wealthy. Political connections written all over him. He greeted Bọlánlé with a familiarity that confirmed everything Amara had suspected.
*So that's him.*
Amara took a sip of her drink, watching. Bọlánlé laughed at something the man said, leaning in just a little too close. Intimate. Comfortable.
*Chidi deserves better than this.*
But Amara didn't move. Not yet. She wasn't here to confront anyone. She was here to confirm. And now she had.
Bọlánlé's eyes flicked across the room—and landed on Amara.
For a split second, something passed between them. Recognition. Understanding.
Bọlánlé knew that Amara *knew*.
And Amara could see the calculation behind Bọlánlé's eyes: *Will she tell him?*
Amara smiled faintly, raised her glass in a silent toast, and turned away.
Not her problem. Not tonight.
She had bigger things to deal with.
---
The crowd shifted, and Amara felt it before she saw it.
The air changed. People stepped aside. Conversations quieted.
And then *he* walked in.
**General Adeyemi.**
Amara's adoptive father.
He was a large man—not in the way of fat or excess, but in presence. Broad shoulders. Military posture. The kind of man who commanded a room just by existing. His uniform was crisp, decorated with medals that told stories of wars won and borders expanded. His face was stern, weathered, the kind of face that had seen too much death and still chose to stand.
People didn't approach him. They *waited* to be acknowledged.
He scanned the room, his gaze landing on Amara.
And his expression softened.
Just a fraction. Just enough.
He walked toward her, and the crowd parted.
Bọlánlé's affair partner noticed. His eyes widened. "Is that—"
"Yes," Bọlánlé whispered, suddenly very uncomfortable.
The man—Emeka, she'd called him earlier—looked starstruck. Nervous. "Should I—"
"Don't," Bọlánlé hissed. "Just... don't."
General Adeyemi reached Amara, and his voice was low, warm. "Amara."
"General."
He studied her for a moment, then smiled faintly. "You look well."
"So do you."
"Liar." He gestured toward a quieter corner of the venue. "Walk with me."
They moved through the crowd together, and people gave them space. The General's presence was absolute. No one dared interrupt.
When they were alone—relatively speaking—he turned to her, his expression shifting. Still stern, but softer. Paternal.
"How have you been?" he asked.
"Busy."
"Good. Idle hands and all that." He paused. "You're working on something, aren't you?"
Amara didn't answer immediately. She knew better than to lie to him.
"Yes," she said finally.
"Something off the books."
"Yes."
General Adeyemi nodded slowly. "Is it dangerous?"
"Probably."
"Good." He crossed his arms. "You were always at your best when things were dangerous."
Amara smiled faintly. "You taught me that."
"I taught you to survive." His voice was firm but not unkind. "And you've done more than that. You've thrived."
There was a pause. Comfortable. Familiar.
Then the General's tone shifted. Lighter. Almost teasing.
"So," he said. "When are you bringing a man home?"
Amara groaned. "Not this again."
"I'm serious. You're not getting any younger."
"I'm aware."
"I want to see you happy, Amara. With a family. A life outside of all this." He gestured vaguely at the world. "Even after what the military did to you—"
"What *I* did," Amara corrected quietly. "I volunteered. You said no. I did it anyway."
The General's jaw tightened. "And I should have stopped you."
"You couldn't have."
"I should have *tried*." His voice was heavy with guilt. "You wanted to serve. To give back. And I let you pay for it with your arms."
Amara looked down at her cyborg hands. Mechanical. Efficient. Powerful.
"I don't regret it," she said softly. "I made my choice."
"I know." The General's voice was quieter now. "But I still carry it."
They stood in silence for a moment.
Then Amara smiled. "There is someone."
The General's eyebrows rose. "Oh?"
"Maybe. I'm... waiting to see how things play out."
"Waiting for what?"
"For him to figure out his own life first."
The General studied her, then nodded. "Smart. Don't settle for a man who hasn't sorted himself out yet."
"I won't."
He smiled. Rare. Genuine. "Good."
Then his expression shifted. Business.
"That thing you asked me about earlier," he said.
Amara's eyes sharpened. "And?"
"I made the call. The file is ready."
"Already?"
"I have connections." He pulled out his own device—a military-grade bracelet, sleek and black. "But before I send it to you..."
He tapped the screen, and Amara felt her own device vibrate.
She started to check it, but the General reached out, his large hand gently covering her wrist. Pausing her.
"Your happiness is more important than any mission," he said quietly. "I mean that. Serve your country, yes. Do your duty. But don't forget to live, Amara. Don't forget to be *happy*."
Amara looked up at him. This man who had found her as an orphan. Who had raised her. Trained her. Loved her in the only way he knew how.
"I won't forget," she said.
The General nodded, then released her wrist.
Amara opened the file.
**Marcus Vance. Full Military Dossier.**
Everything. His missions. His contacts. His last known locations. The kind of information governments didn't share.
And now she had it.
"Thank you," Amara said quietly.
The General nodded. "Be careful."
"Always."
He turned to leave, then paused. "And Amara?"
"Yes?"
"Bring him around sometime. Let me meet this man you're waiting for."
Amara smiled. "We'll see."
The General chuckled and walked away, the crowd parting for him once more.
Amara stood alone, staring at the file in her hands.
*Chidi. I hope you're ready for this.*
---
The walk back to Damian's apartment was quiet.
Too quiet.
Osaze's legs felt like lead. His arms ached. His head pounded. Every step was an effort.
Beside him, Kemi walked in silence, still gripping the axe. Her knuckles were white. Her eyes were distant.
Damian led the way, his expression unreadable.
None of them spoke.
When they finally reached the apartment, Damian unlocked the door and stepped inside. Osaze and Kemi followed, collapsing onto the couch immediately.
Damian closed the door, locked it, and turned to face them.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Now you're going to explain what the hell just happened."
Osaze leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling. "I don't even know where to start."
"Start with the axe," Damian said, his eyes flicking to the weapon in Kemi's hands. "Because that thing nearly got you both killed."
Kemi looked down at the axe. ẸTA-IRIN. Ogun's weapon. Her mother's weapon.
"My mom said it would protect me," she whispered. "She said it's protected her. But I don't understand what that means."
Damian crouched in front of her, studying the axe carefully. He didn't touch it.
"I can feel power from it," he said quietly. "I saw you using it. Cutting down those Abíkú like they were nothing." He frowned. "This isn't a normal axe. But I can't verify anything. I don't have the expertise."
"Then what do we do?" Kemi's voice was small.
Damian stood. "Your mother gave you that axe. Out of everything in that house—the money, the tech, everything—she gave you an *old axe*. That means it's more important than anything else she owned. She told you to keep it safe. To protect it. That's not something you ignore."
Kemi's grip on the axe tightened.
"I know someone," Damian continued. "Someone who understands ancestral power. Old traditions. He can examine it. Help you understand what it is and what it means."
"Can we trust him?" Osaze asked.
Damian met his eyes. "I do. He helped me once. A long time ago. When I was trying to figure out what I was."
Kemi nodded slowly. "Okay. When can we go?"
"Tomorrow," Damian said. "Right now, you both need to rest. Eat. Process."
Osaze wanted to argue, but his body betrayed him. He was *exhausted*.
"Fine," he muttered. "But we go first thing in the morning."
"Agreed."
---
They went out to eat.
It felt strange—wrong, even—to sit in a restaurant, ordering food, pretending everything was normal.
But they needed it.
The place was small. Quiet. Local food, no corporate branding, no AI assistants chirping recommendations. The kind of place that catered to everyone—human, Tuned, and even those with more unusual dietary needs.
Osaze and Kemi ordered jollof rice, plantains, grilled fish. Comfort food.
Damian ordered from a separate section of the menu. Blood pudding. Synthesized, ethically sourced. The kind of meal that let vampires eat in public without raising questions.
For a while, they ate in silence.
Then Kemi spoke.
"I keep expecting her to call me," she said quietly. "Like she's just at work. Like she'll text me and ask what I want for dinner."
Osaze didn't know what to say.
Damian set down his fork. "It doesn't go away. That feeling. But it gets... quieter. With time."
Kemi looked at him. "How long did it take for you?"
"I'll let you know when it happens."
She laughed. It was small, broken, but it was *something*.
They finished their meal. Paid. Left.
And for a brief moment, it almost felt like they were a family.
---
Back at the apartment, Damian stood by the window, looking out at the city.
"You two should get some sleep," he said. "Tomorrow's going to be a long day."
Osaze nodded, heading toward the guest room. Kemi followed.
But before they left, something *moved* in the corner of Osaze's vision.
Ìgè.
The Blood-Stained Leopard sat near the couch, tail flicking lazily. Its golden eyes gleamed with amusement.
"Finally," Ìgè said. "A moment of peace. Though I doubt it'll last."
Osaze sighed. "Not now."
"Oh, don't mind me. I'm just the ancient spirit bound to your bloodline. Perfectly reasonable to ignore."
Damian's eyes flicked toward Ìgè's direction.
Not directly at it. But *near* it.
Ìgè's ears perked up. "Oh? The bloodsucker can sense me?"
Damian frowned. "There's something in this room."
Osaze blinked. "You can feel it?"
"Barely." Damian's gaze was still searching. "Like a pressure. A presence. That's the leopard you mentioned, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Osaze said. "That's Ìgè."
Damian's jaw tightened slightly, but he didn't press further. "Get some rest, Osaze. We'll deal with everything tomorrow."
Osaze nodded and headed toward the guest room.
But Ìgè followed.
---
Osaze closed the door behind him and collapsed onto the bed.
Ìgè hopped onto the windowsill, watching him.
"You're exhausted," Ìgè observed.
"Thanks for the insight."
"I'm serious." Ìgè's tone shifted. Less mocking. More... concerned. "You've been through a lot. Your body is changing. Your power is waking up. And tonight, something's going to happen."
Osaze frowned. "What do you mean?"
"People have talked about it for generations," Ìgè said. "Dreams where the dead appear. Visions where ancestors call out. Some think it's just grief. Exhaustion. The mind playing tricks." The leopard's golden eyes glowed faintly. "But when the spirits call, boy, you don't get to refuse. You don't get to prepare. They *pull* you in whether you're ready or not."
Osaze sat up slightly. "You're saying I'm going to... what? Dream about them?"
"More than a dream." Ìgè's voice was quieter now. "The ancestral plane. Where the ones who came before wait. You'll meet them tonight."
Osaze felt a chill run through him. "I'm not ready."
"Doesn't matter." Ìgè's tail flicked. "They're calling you. And when they call, you go. Ready or not."
Osaze stared at the ceiling, his chest tight.
"What if I can't—"
"You will." Ìgè's voice was firm. "Because you have no choice. And because you've never been alone, Osaze. You just didn't know it yet."
Osaze wanted to argue. To push back. To say something.
But exhaustion pulled at him like a tide.
His eyes grew heavy.
And he fell asleep.
---
Osaze opened his eyes.
He wasn't in the guest room anymore.
The world around him was white. Pure, endless white. The ground beneath his feet was solid but featureless. The sky above was the same—white, stretching infinitely.
And cutting through it all, like veins in marble, were streaks of *red*.
Blood-red.
They pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
Osaze stood slowly, his breath visible in the air. It was cold here. Not freezing, but... empty.
"Where am I?" he whispered.
"Home."
Osaze spun around.
A man stood behind him.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark skin. Strong jaw. Eyes that looked tired but kind.
He looked like Ehizogie.
Osaze's heart stopped.
"Dad?" he whispered.
The man's expression was calm. Patient. He didn't smile, but there was warmth in his gaze.
"I am the one who came before him," the man said gently.
The words took a moment to land.
Osaze's breath hitched. "Before... before my father?"
"Yes."
"Then where is he?" Osaze's voice cracked. "Is he here?"
The man's expression grew softer. Sadder. "He is here. But you are not yet strong enough to see him."
Osaze felt his chest tighten. "What does that mean?"
"It means you must grow first," the man said. "Your power is waking. Your body is changing. But you are still at the beginning. When you are strong enough—when you have learned what we have to teach—then you will see him."
Osaze stared at him, his throat burning.
*He's here.*
*But I can't see him.*
*Not yet.*
The silence stretched.
Then Osaze's legs gave out.
He didn't fall dramatically. Didn't cry out.
He just... knelt.
Slowly. Quietly.
His hands pressed against the white ground, his head bowed.
The ancestor stepped forward and crouched beside him.
"Do not despair," he said softly. "You are home. And here, you can finally meet the rest of your family. Not just those who are alive, but those who have been with you always."
Osaze looked up, his eyes wet but unfallen.
The ancestor stood and extended a hand.
"Come," he said. "There are many who wish to meet you."
Osaze hesitated.
Then he took the hand.
---
They walked together through the white-and-red expanse.
And ahead of them, rising from the ground like a monument, was a *gate*.
It was massive. Towering. Made of something that looked like bone and iron and blood, all fused together. Symbols covered its surface—old symbols, older than language, older than memory.
The gate pulsed.
The red veins in the realm converged on it, flowing into it, feeding it.
Osaze stared.
"What is that?" he whispered.
"The threshold," the ancestor said. "Beyond it are the others. Those who mastered the power. Those who will teach you."
The gate began to open.
Slowly. Silently.
And from within, a light began to pour out.
Not white. Not red.
*Gold.*
Warm. Brilliant. Overwhelming.
Osaze shielded his eyes, but he couldn't look away.
The ancestor smiled faintly. "Welcome home, Osaze Evbuomwan."
The light grew brighter.
Brighter.
Brighter.
And the gate opened wide.