"When the soul is prepared, the land will speak." — Ancient Igbo Proverb
---
The forest was hushed beneath a silvery wash of morning light. Drops of dew glistened like scattered jewels along each broad leaf and hanging vine. Obinna sat cross-legged just outside the Spirit Grove Camp, feeling the forest hum against his fingertips as though it shared his own breath. Azụmiri preened his shimmering feathers above, and Adaeze was preparing quietly, drawing shapes in the soil with the tip of her staff.
He had woken before the dawn, sensing that the Ring of Veins would not wait forever. And now, as the chill of morning gave way to a gentle, promising warmth, he felt ready. Ready to face whatever trial had been left unspoken — one that would demand more than strength, more than endurance. It would demand that he give up a piece of himself to truly understand.
> "The third Ring," Adaeze murmured without looking up. "It lies in the hills, deeper than we thought."
He inclined his head, sensing the weight in her words. "And what will it ask?"
> "To listen," she replied simply. "And to remember."
With that, they broke camp, moving deeper into the forest where hills began to rise like gentle giants sleeping under a green coverlet. Azụmiri circled above, his wings stirring the treetops into whispers as they followed the path that twisted toward a jagged chasm. The air felt heavier with each stride — threaded with the scent of soil and iron, with the breath of some ageless presence stirring beneath their feet.
When at last they reached the chasm, it was like standing at the lip of some wounded god. Deep veins of light glowed in jagged fractures along the cliff walls, golden and red like molten blood under glass. Obinna paused, his heart beating slow and deep as those glowing streaks throbbed in answer. Every part of him felt pulled toward the edge.
> "This is the Ring of Veins," Adaeze whispered at his side. "Where the blood of this land and the blood of those who fought for it forever intertwines."
He stared into the glowing chasm. The light wasn't just light — it was memory. Soul. The unyielding strength of countless ancestors whose names were lost but whose will remained.
And then she was stepping forward into the dark. "Come," she urged. "Let them speak."
Obinna followed, descending the narrow path. The light licked up the walls like fire and wrapped around him as they moved deeper into the glowing heart of the hill. Voices filled his ears — murmurs, chants, fragments of songs and sorrow — none entirely clear, yet every one leaving its mark. Shadows of warriors long gone, farmers turned to soldiers, children taken too soon. They were not angry. They were waiting. Waiting for someone who could carry them onward.
And that was when Obinna felt it — the deep, aching tide of the land's history flowing into him. Threads of pain and resilience twined together in his chest until it was hard to breathe. But he did not fight it. Instead, he let it rise and fill him like a breath held too long, then released.
Somewhere ahead, Azụmiri called his name — a sharp, brilliant note that broke the trance. Adaeze was watching him with eyes as dark as the chasm itself, her expression knowing but proud.
> "That," she said softly, "is what you needed to feel."
And he understood. Every soul that had bled into this soil had shaped him — his strength, his resolve, his unyielding will to fight and endure. They were part of him, just as he was now part of them.
When they finally emerged into the light once more, the hills glowed like embers and the forest greeted them like an old friend. Obinna felt lighter and heavier all at once — a vessel filled with voices. Ready for the path that still lay ahead.
And deep in the glowing dark of that chasm, far below the world of green hills and bright skies, the land kept humming, its pulse forever etched into his own.
---
📖 Mini-Dictionary
Ring of Veins — The third trial that tests one's capacity to embrace the pain and strength of their ancestors.
Chasm of Whispering Lights — A sacred rift glowing with the essence of countless forgotten warriors and villagers, merging past and present.
Ancestral Tides — The surge of inherited memory and enduranc
e passed through bloodlines, vital to a champion's soul.