(Chukwu's Perspective)
Dust drifted through the cavern like something undecided between settling and choking someone.
From far away, the light might have passed for celebration.
Up close, it was wrong.
A pattern spread across the ground.
Not drawn.
Cut.
Symbols carved deep into stone spiraled outward in rings too precise to be accidental. Pale light leaked from them. Not bright enough to see by. Just enough to remind you they were there.
The glow climbed.
Up the pillars.
Across the walls.
Threading the ceiling.
The cave wasn't lit.
It was… awake.
Men stood around the circle.
Still.
Watching.
Nobody panicked.
Chukwu would have preferred panic.
Someone sighed.
"The shovel was a bad idea."
The voice carried easily. Calm. Mildly inconvenienced. Like a man whose food arrived cold.
A figure leaned forward.
"Oh well."
His gaze settled on the body slumped against the payloader.
Chukwu.
"So," the man said, "you're finally awake."
Chukwu blinked.
Once.
Twice.
The world dragged behind his eyes like it didn't feel obligated to keep up. Light smeared. Shapes refused to commit.
Someone stepped closer.
Head tilted.
Curious.
"You look confused."
Purple irises glowed faintly in the dim.
"A bit sick too."
A shekere shook in his hand.
Soft rattle.
Dry. Hollow.
Like something inside it used to matter.
"Don't worry," the man said.
He smiled.
Not kind.
Just practiced.
"We'll explain everything."
Chukwu tried to move.
Pain answered.
Not sharp.
Not clean.
Something deeper.
Hot.
Wet.
Wrong.
His body didn't just hurt.
It felt… opened.
He went still.
That seemed important.
Slowly, carefully, he looked down.
The shovel was still there.
Not near him.
Through him.
The metal blade had entered his abdomen and exited somewhere he didn't want to think about. The handle tilted slightly, anchored into the ground like he'd been planted.
Blood spread beneath him.
Thick.
Lazy.
Too much.
Chukwu stared at it.
Processing took effort.
Ah.
There it is.
The whistle at his neck pulsed faintly through the soaked fabric of his shirt. Light bled around the edges of the wood, mixing with the red.
He inhaled.
Air went in.
Air came out.
Rough.
Uneven.
Still happening.
Good.
Bare minimum achieved.
The man watched him.
Patient.
"…Oga."
A sigh.
"You weren't supposed to be here."
The shekere rattled again. The beads clicked against the gourd.
Bone against bone.
"Unfortunately," he went on, "life rarely consults anyone important."
Chukwu tried to lift his arm.
His body refused.
Not gently.
A violent reminder ran through his nerves, down his spine, into his teeth.
No.
Understood.
"What's happening," the man said, "is actually very simple."
He gestured toward the glowing circle.
The symbols pulsed faintly in response.
Or maybe Chukwu imagined that.
"We found your friend a suitable container."
A pause.
A small smile.
"For our master."
The word friend landed late.
Lanre.
Something in Chukwu's head clicked into place. Not clarity. Just direction.
The man continued.
"In retrospect… waking our master fifty years early was not ideal."
A shrug.
"Mistakes happen."
Then he pinched his own arm.
Pulled.
Skin stretched.
Too far.
Too easily.
It didn't tear.
Didn't resist.
It just… gave.
Like it wasn't attached to anything vital.
Like the body was a suggestion.
"Oh," he added, almost as an afterthought.
"I should clarify."
He let the skin snap back.
"I'm someone else."
A step closer.
Purple eyes steady now.
"This body died last week."
Closer.
Too close.
"See?"
The smile widened.
Not bigger.
Just deeper.
"Call me IFA."
Chukwu stared at him.
Coughed.
Blood climbed his throat and spilled past his lips, warm and thick.
His body shook around the shovel.
Lanre, he thought.
You absolute idiot.
Because if they had found a container—
Then whatever was inside that coffin…
Wasn't inside it anymore.
The whistle against his chest pulsed again.
Brighter.
And somewhere deeper in the cavern—
Something shifted.
Not loudly.
Not violently.
Just enough.
Like a body adjusting itself before sitting up.
The symbols along the ground flickered.
The air tightened.
The cave held its breath.
And Chukwu suddenly understood something very simple.
He wasn't dying alone.
He was dying early.