Ojadili felt it before he understood it.
It's not just fear—fear had a shape, a weight, a reason. This was something thinner, sharper, like a thread pulled tight behind his eyes.
The night around him still breathed with celebration, laughter spilling across compounds, drums bruising the dark with rhythm. Yet something moved beneath that joy, crawling quietly, patient.
A threat.
He did not return to the feast after his meeting with the Chief priest—not really.
Ojadili sat among the honored. He smiled, laughed, drank—but inside, part of him lagged, tethered still to the forest, the river, the wolves, the storm of gods…and now, the Chief Priest's threat.
Drums rolled in layered rhythm, deep and alive.
Feet struck earth in celebration.
Old songs rose—half memory, half defiance.
This was not just a feast.
It was proof.
That the village still stood.
That they had not been broken.
Warriors recounted the battle, exaggerating each feat. Children reenacted skirmishes with sticks, giggling. A famous world-traveling drunkard stumbled into stories, praising Ojadili with absurd reverence.
"You hear this man?" he slurred, clapping Ojadili's back. "Ah! Thunder strikes not twice, but men like you are born once!"
Laughter followed—amusing, hollow, fleeting.
But the night had not yet finished. Shadows shifted as the celebration thinned. Ugomma had returned home early as she's light head with Obiagheli escorting her home , leaving Ojadili to celebrate.
But it was the opposite.
Ojadili turned away from the fires and followed the narrow footpath back to his father's compound—the old polygamous homestead that once overflowed with voices, now hollowed by absence. Most of the family were still at the celebration of Ojadili who just returned, words that praised him and mourned him in the same breath. He slipped inside unnoticed.
The hut welcomed him with stillness.
It was not the quiet of rest.
It was absence.
The kind that followed after voices had been taken away.
The walls held no movement, no warmth. Even the air felt untouched, as though no one had passed through in days.
He stood still, listening.
Faint memories pressed at him—laughter, arguments, footsteps crossing the floor.
Now there was nothing.
No echo answered him.
No sign that life had ever filled the space.
The stillness stretched longer than it should.
For a moment, he wondered if he had returned too late—
not just from the river…
but from everything.
He lay on the bamboo bed, its woven ribs creaking beneath his weight, and closed his eyes. Sleep did not come gently. It came like a forced surrender.
—
A soft clatter woke him.
Ojadili stirred, half-dreaming, then sat up. Dawn had not yet broken. The air was pale and cold.
As he rose to ease himself, his heel struck something small. A clay bowl tipped. Dark liquid spilled across the earthen floor.
"Ah—sorry," he said instinctively.
A child stood there.
The boy could not have been more than six. He knelt beside the spill, unbothered, his fingers already stained with uli.
"It's okay," the child said politely.
Ojadili bent and lifted the bowl, steadying it. "What are you painting?"
The boy smiled, proud. "It's pretty. See for yourself."
Ojadili followed the child's gaze.
On the wall of the hut, drawn in confident curves, was a serpent.
Not crude. Not childish.
Its body coiled with intention. Its eyes were marked with unsettling care.
Too careful.
The lines did not wander like a child's attempt.
They curved with purpose.
Each coil held shape, intention.
As though the hand that drew it had seen it before.
Not imagined.
Not guessed.
Known.
A faint tension built behind his eyes.
His breath slowed without his permission.
Something about the drawing felt wrong—
not because it was strange…
but because it felt familiar in a way it should not.
' Hold on . Why will a kid be painting in his house by this time of the day' His thought struck him.
Ojadili's body reacted before his mind did.
His breath hitched.
His skin prickled.
The world trembled.
Then he remembers.
The prophecy.
His hands began to vibrate.
"How did you know this?" Ojadili whispered, though he did not know who he was asking.
The kid turned.
Then he saw other children.
They stood outside. More bowls. More fingers stained dark. On the walls of neighboring huts, on the fence posts, even on the packed earth—serpents. Coiling. Watching.
His chest tightened.
"What are you all doing?" he shouted.
The children turned as one.
They raised their hands.
Index fingers extended.
Pointing at him.
None of them spoke.
None of them moved.
Their faces held no confusion.
No fear.
Only stillness.
As if this moment had already happened somewhere before.
As if they understood something he did not.
Their fingers did not shake.
They remained fixed—
certain.
Ojadili staggered back.
Why are they pointing at me?
Are they possessed?
Who told them?
Who spoke the prophecy aloud?
The name surfaced like a wound torn open.
The Chief Priest.
Cold swept through him. Gooseflesh rose along his arms. His body shook harder now, the vibration climbing into his teeth.
A hand touched him.
"It's okay."
" No" He panics .
The hand holds he tightly.
"No!"
Ojadili gasped and jerked awake.
The hut was empty. His breath came fast, harsh. Sweat slicked his skin.
" I said it's okay," the voice repeated calmly.
He looked up.
Chi sat beside him.
"How— you are— God is—"
"Yes. I understand," Chi said gently, smiling as if they were old friends sharing a quiet joke.
"You are having a bad night. Or should I say, a supernatural one."
"How do you know I was dreaming?"
"We never sleep."
The words settled slowly.
Not like a reply—
but like something that had always been true.
Ojadili watched him more closely.
There was no weight in the way he sat. No sound followed his movement. Yet the space around him felt full, as though something unseen adjusted to hold him there.
"You are real," Ojadili said quietly.
He did not know if it was a question.
Chi smiled.
Not answering.
Not denying.
And that unsettled him more than either would have.
Ojadili's breath steadied little by little.
Yet something remained.
A distance.
Not between them—
but between what he understood and what stood before him.
Ojadili huffed weakly. "Great. But how can a god leave his... I... I thought gods can't appear physically on earth , so how did and why did you—"
"I don't remember introducing myself as a god."
Those words struck heavy than they sound.
Ojadili takes a deep breath , corrected his mistake and continue.
"…a heavenly being leaves his heavenly abode to comfort the one, the human who made a mess of everything," Ojadili finished.
"You didn't make a mess of anything," Chi said. "You are just human."
"Then why come to comfort me?"
"As a friend." Chi's voice softened. "What you experienced in the heavenly realm… it lingers."
Ojadili nodded. "It does. Thank you."
"Go to the spring again tomorrow. Breathe the water that bursts from rock. It steadies you."
"I did. It helped. But the threats haven't stopped. Since I rejected the gods' offer."
Chi's eyes sharpened slightly. "Is the threat from a god? Through an element? An aspect?"
"No. From our Chief Priest."
"Aah…" Chi sighed, sadness threading his voice. "No god is permitted to threaten you. But the chief priest" He takes a deep breath " They hears all voices — divine and otherwise.So they are a bit..." He stretches himself and yawn just like a human "But still… nothing will harm you."
" How... do you know?" Ojadili stammered .
" Because I'm here with you even if not physically, I'm with you spiritually ."
"You're too kind to me."
"I am your personal chi."
Ojadili swallowed. "I know my decision angered you."
"It did," Chi admitted. "And I still wish you would accept. But I respect your choice.That's the greatest thing you have . The ability to choose what you want "
"I want to remain human," Ojadili said quietly. "Even if humans are weak, foolish, and die."
"That's true," Chi smiled. "Except one thing. Even if others are fools—you are not."
They laughed softly.
"I can see sleep returning," Chi said.
"Wait," Ojadili said. "What should I call you?"
"Ogwuma."
" Ogwuma. Even if I'm to stop the prophecy I want to do it as human." He breaths gently "Goodnight Ogwuma"
"Good night, Ojadili."
Chi touched his forehead. A transparent warmth flowed, easing his breath. Sleep claimed him fully this time.
—
The heavens were not calm.
Chi stepped into the realm to find voices colliding, thrones vibrating with restrained force.
Amadioha sat where he should not be.
Igwekala's physical throne had been overtaken—temporarily—but power was never only about throne.
It resisted.
It remembered.
Amadioha's patience had thinned.
"We waste time," Amadioha said. "We seek the serpent's seed while ignoring the serpent's breath."
Amamiheuwa tilted her head. "Speak clearly."
"Ekwensu hides in knowledge. In proximity. Not flesh." Amadioha's gaze swept the council. "We
Anyanwu said carefully. "This assumptions fracture unity."
"And blind faith fractures survival," Amadioha shot back.
Igwekala's small form hovered uneasily. Angry at how her throne had been taken
Ikeogu leaned forward. "Power balances matter more than suspicion."
"Balance without truth rots," Amadioha replied.
Anger erupted.
Ani and Agwunsi said nothing.
Chi felt the tension ripple outward—downward.
On earth, thunder murmured. Rivers swelled. Metal trembled. Masks rustled in their shrines. The power and elements each god controls were manifesting the gods anger
Ani rose.
"Quiet."
All gods could feel the vibration of the realm. They all obeyed
"Amadioha," Ani said evenly, "your hunger for central power speaks louder than your caution."
Shame flickered. Respect shifted.
Igwekala reclaimed her throne.
"The test will not happen," Ani concluded. "Dismissed."
Amadioha bowed, defeated.
—
Dawn found Ojadili strong.
He lifted his farming tools. Warrior or not, every man of land tilled the earth. His farm lay beyond the village—soil less tired, more honest.
As he walked, he smiled faintly, remembering the Chief Priest's threat… and Ogwuma's assurance.
But the land ahead breathed wrong.
Shadows moved where none should.
Watching.
They did not shift like leaves.
They did not bend with wind.
They moved with intent.
Slow.
Measured.
Keeping distance.
But never leaving.
Ojadili's grip tightened slightly.
That same thin pressure returned behind his eyes.
And somewhere, unseen, the Chief Priest watched.