Obinna stood beneath the looming baobab tree, its branches silhouetted against the deep crimson glow of the blood moon. The forest was alive with a strange energy tonight, stirring like the restless heartbeat of the gods. Every breath he took was laced with the scent of damp soil and distant smoke, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he brushed his palm across the wooden amulet at his chest.
He thought of Adaeze, of the fear and resolve that had gleamed in her dark eyes before they had parted. Her words had been like iron wrapped in silk — full of hope and steel.
"You will return," she had whispered.
And he had believed her.
But belief was a fragile shield against the horrors that roamed the Nine Realms.
A low growl reached his ears — not beast, but something more guttural and otherworldly. Obinna froze.
He felt them before he saw them. Shadows peeled themselves away from the thickets like jagged fragments of the forest itself. Figures, too tall and too lean to be mere men, moved as one — eyes glowing a strange, cold blue.
"Night-born," he breathed, gripping his spear.
The Reaper's servants.
Their faces were masks of mourning, featureless and hollow. Yet the power in their stride was undeniable, as if a cursed spirit had bent them to its will.
And behind them, standing taller than all, was the figure he had long dreaded and long expected — The Reaper himself.
A gust of wind sent dry leaves skittering across Obinna's feet. Every tale, every warning from the elders, had built the Reaper into legend: a judge who walked between worlds, collecting the fallen and the damned. To see him in flesh was a different terror entirely.
"You have come far, child of Umuokoro," the Reaper intoned, voice like grinding stones. "Your blood sings of the gods who abandoned this world."
Obinna took a measured step back, feeling the pull of his lineage and training.
"I will not be taken so easily," he replied, his voice surprising him with its steadiness.
The Reaper chuckled, a sound colder than winter.
"You already belong to me," he said.
And then the Night-born rushed forward.
Time slowed. Obinna's body moved on instinct as the first one struck — his spear sweeping low to trip the creature before spinning into a reverse thrust that met another lunging assailant.
Dark mist scattered like ink through water, their bodies fading into nothingness even as more pressed in.
Somewhere at the edge of his awareness, Obinna felt a stirring of power — the faint spark of an older, deeper strength that hummed within him. Blood of the Igbo gods. Blood of warriors.
With a roar that echoed across the forest like distant thunder, he struck again and again, the spear an extension of his soul, until only the Reaper remained.
The Reaper inclined his head, as if acknowledging a worthy rival.
"You fight well," he murmured. "But this is not your end. There is more pain waiting for you… more sorrow."
And with that, the dark figure dissolved into the mist, leaving Obinna alone beneath the blood moon, breath heaving, hands slick with the chill of victory — and fear.
He knew then that tonight had been a
warning. The real trial was yet to come.