The sky over the village turned strange.
It was supposed to be a clear evening—no clouds, no wind. But as Ayanwale stepped back into town, people began to whisper. Birds flew low. Goats stopped chewing and stared at the sky. Children cried for no reason.
Rotimi met him at the edge of the village, face pale.
"You feel that?" he asked.
Ayanwale nodded. "They're here."
The Ajalu.
They didn't arrive like thunder.
They crept in like smoke—through the wells, beneath the market stalls, under doorways and rafters. Wisps of black mist that gathered in corners. Flickers of shadow that didn't match their objects.
By nightfall, the air was thick.
Then—screams.
Mama Okon's son ran through the square, bleeding from the nose, eyes wide with terror. "The shadows are talking!" he wailed. "They're saying my name!"
Rotimi grabbed Ayanwale. "What do we do?!"
Ayanwale was already unwrapping the Royalty Drum.
"I'm done hiding."
He moved to the center of the village square, lit a circle of palm oil lamps, and placed the drum in the middle. People began to gather. Some with hope. Others with doubt.
He looked around at them and shouted, "You want to know what's been haunting this town? Watch!"
Then he played.
But this rhythm was not for awakening. It was for defense. It pulsed like a heartbeat under siege—sharp, commanding, alive. The Royalty Drum thundered. The shadows stirred.
And then they revealed themselves.
From the alleyways, rooftops, and wells, the Ajalu emerged.
Not fully spirit. Not fully flesh. They walked like wind given bones. Black robes. No faces. Just smooth heads and hollow mouths that hummed.
One stepped forward, taller than the rest. It hissed.
"Child of two lines… you should have stayed asleep."
Ayanwale struck the drum three times—BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.
The lamps around him flared to life.
"You don't belong here!" he shouted.
The creature tilted its head. Then lifted one arm.
From the ground, two villagers collapsed—lifeless. Their spirits rising as twisted echoes to join the Ajalu ranks.
Panic.
People screamed. Ran.
Ayanwale didn't.
He kept playing.
And then—a second drum answered.
From the far end of the square, a woman stepped forward. Barefoot. Hooded. Holding a smaller drum shaped like a half-moon.
She moved through the crowd like smoke herself.
When she played, the air changed.
The Ajalu recoiled. The lead spirit shrieked and stepped back.
Ayanwale stopped, stunned.
"Who—?"
The woman raised a hand. "Later."
Together, their rhythms blended—his thunder, her whisper.
The Ajalu howled, twisted, and were ripped back into smoke, torn apart by the sound itself.
Silence returned.
Only then did she speak.
"My name is Amoke. Daughter of Efunsetan. Descendant of the Silent Drummers."
Rotimi gasped. "That's just an old legend—!"
"No," she said. "We were real. We are real. And we've been waiting for someone like him."
She looked at Ayanwale.
"You've awakened three rhythms. But you're still incomplete. And now they'll come faster, stronger, and with allies of their own. The blood of Oluwafemi runs deeper than you think."
Ayanwale nodded slowly, catching his breath.
"Then we fight together."
And so, a new chapter of the legacy began.
Ayanwale. Amoke. The Royalty Drum. The Silent Drum.
Two legacies—joining forces.
The Ajalu had revealed themselves.
Now, it was war.