A Slave’s Ascension

The heavens poured out rain in outrage; lightning ran through the skies, and furious thunder deafened the people of Nnewi village. The women and children huddled together in their huts, praying to the gods to deliver them from their perils. Their lands had been invaded by Orlu, a strong kingdom from the south, leaving the men of Nnewi no choice but to leave their families and march to war to protect their loved ones.

In one of the many huts, a young boy of about ten years old listened in awe to his mother as she told him tales of Amadioha, the deity of thunder, justice, and vengeance. These were his favorite stories, as he had always been intrigued by his past experiences of being struck by lightning twice.

Being struck by lightning had given Ikenna unique features that made him stand out. His dark, dreadlocked hair had turned white. He possessed intricate fern-like burn patterns on his body, resembling permanent tattoos of lightning bolts, and his eyes had a faint cloudy appearance, giving him an otherworldly aura. Despite his peculiar appearance, he bore no permanent injuries from his encounters with the lightning.

“Mama, tell me the one about Amadioha and the oath breaker,” the boy said excitedly to his mother as the story she had been telling came to an end.

“Okay, but this is the last one, and then you have to go to sleep,” Akunna said with a smile, her warm brown eyes radiating love as she ruffled her son's hair.

Akunna was a beautiful woman in her mid-thirties. She had a graceful, wiry build that reflected her resilience and years of hard work to care for her son and herself since her husband had passed away. Her long, dark hair, woven into braids and adorned with beads and cowries, symbolized her connection to tradition.

“Once upon a time…” she began her story as the heavy downpour continued.

---

Two armies faced each other in a muddy field. The rain obscured their vision and made the prospect of battle difficult. From the formations of the two armies, it was easy to discern that the army of Orlu was superior. Their soldiers, numbering in the hundreds, stood straight in disciplined formation, their eyes showing no fear as they coldly stared at the opposing army.

At the other end, the warriors of Nnewi stood in loose formation. They awkwardly held their weapons, their unsteady grips revealing that most of them were farmers or hunters, with only a few warriors in their midst. Despite this, their resolve was unshakable. They knew their families and loved ones were behind them, and they had to protect them at all costs.

A man stood at the helm of the invading Orlu army, his gaze piercing and his aura domineering. He cut an imposing figure, dressed in leather pants lined with furs. A leopard’s pelt was draped over one shoulder, symbolizing his authority and strength. He wore an intimidating dark-metal helmet with bull horns that obscured his face from his enemies. Tattoos symbolizing strength and telling his story ran along his right arm, while streaks of red and white war paint marked his face and exposed body. Around his neck hung an iron charm with a small ram’s head, blessed by priests for protection and strength. Talismans made of wood and cowrie shells jingled softly on his wrists and ankles with every movement.

He stepped forward and slammed the base of his long spear into the ground beside him, addressing the warriors of Nnewi in a booming voice.

"Men of Nnewi, hear me! I am General Obinna, commander of the mighty Orlu army.

We have come for your lands, your wealth, and your allegiance. Your kingdom has grown weak, your rulers complacent. Today, you stand on the edge of annihilation.

But we are not a kingdom without mercy. Surrender now, and you will live. Your families will be spared, and your lives will have purpose under our banner. You will not only survive—you will thrive as part of the greatest kingdom the world has ever seen.

But defy us, and you seal your fate. Fight, and you will all die here today. The ground beneath your feet will run red with your blood.

The choice is yours: allegiance or death. Bow before us, or be buried beneath us."

The roar of his soldiers standing behind him ended his speech. He crossed his arms over his chest and stared down at the warriors of Nnewi.

The anxiety was palpable. Some clutched their weapons so tightly that their knuckles turned white; others glanced nervously at one another, murmurs rippling through their ranks as they deliberated his offer.

“We can’t fight them. Did you see their numbers? We’re outmatched in every way!” one of the village farmers urged his brethren.

“Then what? We kneel to them and let them take everything we’ve built? Our lands, our families, and our honor?” the village chief asked in an angry tone, spitting on the ground in disgust.

“But if we fight, we’ll all die. Maybe surrender is the only way to save ourselves,” one of the few experienced soldiers said hesitantly.

“Surrender and be slaves in our own homes? I’d rather die on my feet than live on my knees,” the chief countered.

The murmurs grew louder, arguments breaking out. Some clamored for surrender, while others advocated for war. Amid the chaos, the young son of the chieftain stepped forward. His face hardened with anger and defiance as he watched his clansmen cower. His blood boiled. He locked eyes with the imposing figure of Obinna standing in the distance. He could swear he saw a faint smirk on the General's face, which only enraged him further.

“He thinks he can come here today, threaten us, and make us grovel before him? Never!” he said to himself.

He nocked an arrow, pulled the string back with practiced ease, and took aim at the General.

“Wait! Are you mad? What are you doing?” the soldier who had spoken earlier spotted his action and ran toward him.

It was already too late. The arrow was loosed with a sharp *twang*. It cut through the air with wicked precision, heading straight for General Obinna.

Obinna, arms still folded across his chest, noticed the arrow streaking toward him. He did not panic. Calmly, he tilted his head slightly, deflecting the arrow with his helmet. Sparks flew as the arrow splintered and fell harmlessly to the ground.

The battlefield grew silent as everyone held their breath. Obinna lowered his arm slowly, grabbed the spear embedded in the ground, and pulled it free. Sweeping his piercing gaze across the opposing army, he spoke.

“So, you have chosen death,” he said.

With a swift motion, he hurled the spear with inhuman strength. The spear tore through the air and impaled the chieftain’s son. The soldier who had tried to stop him was caught as well, both of them pinned to a tree by the powerful throw.

“Noooooo!!!” the chief cried out in a wounded voice. Seeing his son’s lifeless body filled him with blind rage. He dashed toward Obinna with no regard for his own safety.

Obinna calmly reached for the curved blade at his waist and raised it above his head. He spoke only two words as he brought it down.

“Kill them.”

His army roared in response and charged toward the enemy.