Not every portal leads forward. Some drag you into what the world forgot, into the echoing abyss of fractured time, where the past is not a memory, but a living, breathing entity.

  The st thing Afobi remembered was the golden shimmer swallowing him whole—the searing heat of the mask against his chest, the sound of his name unspoken but known, a vibration that resonated with the core of his being, a promise and a threat. Then, everything fractured.

  Light bent and twisted, distorting into grotesque shapes, the familiar ws of physics unraveling like a broken code. Wind howled without sound, a silent scream that tore at his sanity, a psychic assault that threatened to erase his very being. The golems, their massive forms flickering and unstable, their power a votile mix of the divine and the earthbound, followed him into the threshold, their presence a mixture of protection and ominous anticipation.

  Now, he fell.

  Not through space, the familiar dimensions of reality. But through memory itself, the echoes of countless lives swirling around him, their joys and sorrows, triumphs and failures, a chaotic symphony of the past.

  Not downward, pulled by gravity’s relentless hand. But inward, into the heart of what had been, what was, and what might never be again, a journey into the soul of the world.

  He nded with a breathless thud, the impact jarring his bones and silencing the whispers of the past for a fleeting moment, a shock that sent tremors through the memory realm. The ground beneath him wasn’t earth as he knew it, the familiar solidity of stone and soil. More like solidified memory—crystallized into a tangible form, humming with forgotten names and buried emotions, its surface warm and yielding, yet strangely unstable. It pulsed with a faint, golden light, the same light that had swaddled his fall, and clung to his cloak, his skin, his very soul like ash from a sacred fire, a residue of the portal’s power.

  Afobi groaned and pushed himself to his knees, his hands sinking slightly into the glowing ground, the memories of countless lives fshing through his mind with each touch, a sensory overload that threatened to overwhelm him. He recoiled from the weight of ages, the joy and sorrow of generations, the triumphs and failures of a civilization he barely knew, the echoes of lives lived and lost in this very pce.

  The world around him stretched out—a vast savannah under an inverted sky, a ndscape of pure, unfiltered memory, a reflection of a time before time. Twisted, impossible consteltions of swirling stars, glowing blue and violet with an ancient light, wheeled overhead, orbiting no sun, their patterns shifting and reforming with the ebb and flow of forgotten ages, their light pulsing with the rhythm of countless heartbeats. Some consteltions pulsed with raw, untamed emotion—grief that stretched across centuries, rage that burned with the heat of dying suns, longing that echoed with the silence of forgotten gods, each one a window into a soul long departed.

  It felt like being watched by the dead, their silent gazes piercing through his very being, their memories pressing against his consciousness, their presence a suffocating weight that threatened to crush his spirit.

  Behind him, the golems nded—one after another, their arrival strangely silent yet profoundly impactful, their forms solidifying from the swirling light, their power contained yet palpable.

  The wind-speaker’s form wavered like heat haze, her cy skin shimmering with iridescent energy, her limbs wrapped in perpetual motion, a dance of restless change and untamed power.

  The fire-forged golem stood grounded and proud, molten seams glowing beneath his obsidian armor, red lightning crawling across his form like veins of fire, a contained inferno of divine wrath burning within his cy heart.

  The earth-shaker rumbled deep, the ground itself groaning beneath his weight, his metal bones and gears grinding with the power of creation and destruction, a living engine of war and industry, a testament to the strength of the earth.

  The tide-weaver flowed beside them, her form fluid and ever-changing, rippling with sea-foam and the luminescence of deep-sea creatures, a tide of ancient wisdom and boundless sorrow, a manifestation of the ocean's boundless power.

  They had changed again, their forms more vivid, more alive, their power more potent. Like they were awakening to a purpose, shedding their dormancy and embracing their true potential.

  So was he.

  The glyph on his palm pulsed—not as a mere mark, but as a living rhythm, a resonant heartbeat connecting him to this strange realm and to the towering figures behind him, a symphony of shared destiny.

  He looked at his hand, the glyph burning with a light that felt both alien and intimately familiar. It wasn’t just glowing—it was remembering. Echoes of visions, scents of rain on parched earth and the metallic tang of Orun-Irin, the sound of chants sung by people he didn’t know but felt he belonged to, their voices a chorus in his blood, their stories a tapestry woven into his very being.

  “What is this pce?” he whispered, the question directed not at the silent golems, but at the realm itself, at the very fabric of this living memory, a plea for understanding in the face of the impossible.

  A warm breeze, carrying the scent of hibiscus and iron, answered his unspoken question, whispering secrets on the wind, a caress of the past. The savannah horizon bent slightly, as if the world itself inhaled, drawing closer to him, eager to share its burdens, its joys, its history.

  The golems remained silent, their massive forms radiating an ancient power that hummed in harmony with the realm, a shared energy that thrummed beneath Afobi’s skin. He was no longer just inside a trial, a test of his abilities. He was inside Il??-ìp??yà (ee-leh ee-peh-yah - the spiritual realm), a pce where the past was not a dead thing, but a living, breathing entity, a mirror of the collective consciousness of his ancestors.

  He stepped forward, his bare feet sinking into the glowing ground, each footfall triggering a cascade of images and emotions that washed over him in waves, a torrent of memories that threatened to drown him. And the ground responded to his presence, to the à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation) within him. Glowing symbols bloomed beneath his feet, forming rippling lines of ancient Yoruba script that flickered and shifted like living ink, telling a story he couldn’t yet comprehend, a nguage of power and prophecy.

  One line burned brighter than the rest, the glyphs twisting and contorting into a grotesque parody of their intended form, their light tainted by shadow:

  “?m? tí a kò k?, ni yóò gbe ilé tí a kò k? tà.”

  The child who is not trained will sell the house that was built.

  The st word, tà (sell), twisted and writhed, the glyph fracturing and corrupting, bleeding darkness into the air like a poisoned wound. Afobi crouched, his fingers trembling as he reached out to brush its edge, drawn by a morbid curiosity, a desire to understand the nature of the darkness that had tainted this sacred pce.

  The moment he touched it—

  Visions, raw and unfiltered, assaulted his senses, each one a fragment of a shattered reality, a glimpse into the heart of oblivion:

  —A city in fmes, its advanced technology burning alongside ancient shrines, its streets choked with the screams of the dying.

  —A girl screaming beneath a falling moon, her voice echoing with a pain that transcended time, a ment for a world lost.

  —A river flowing in reverse, its currents choked with blood and tears, the voices of the drowned trapped within its depths, their whispers a symphony of despair.

  —A man in a bronze mask, his face smooth and unreadable, weeping smoke that blotted out the stars, his silent grief a palpable force that threatened to consume him.

  —A temple buried beneath shifting sands, its once-grand halls now echoing with the whispers of forgotten chants, the nguage a dirge of loss and abandonment, a testament to the fleeting nature of existence.

  —A child standing at a threshold, a mask clutched in his trembling hand, his eyes wide with fear and longing, a mirror of Afobi himself, a haunting reminder of his own vulnerability.

  He recoiled, his breath catching in his throat, his body trembling with the force of the visions, the memories of countless lives pressing down on his soul, leaving a lingering taste of ash and sorrow in his mouth, a chilling premonition of what y ahead.

  “It’s broken,” he said aloud, his voice hoarse with a grief that wasn’t his own, a sadness that clung to him like a shroud. “It’s trying to remember—and failing. The memories are fractured, corrupted, twisted into something… something malevolent.”

  The pendant at his chest pulsed again, the Orisha mask growing warmer against his skin, its rhythm a mournful drumbeat against his own. But this time, it didn’t resist the visions. It mourned with them, a deep, resonant ache that echoed the pain of the dying world around him, a shared grief that bound him to this pce.

  And somewhere inside, a cold certainty settled in his stomach, a premonition of impending doom. He knew, with a chilling crity that transcended logic, that the trial had truly begun.

  A ripple tore through the inverted sky, a distortion in the fabric of memory itself, a tear in the veil between worlds.

  It was not light, though the swirling stars flickered and dimmed, their ancient glow momentarily eclipsed. Not sound, though the silence deepened, becoming a suffocating pressure that threatened to crush his eardrums. But corruption, a tangible wave of wrongness that spread outwards from an unseen source, tainting the very essence of the memory realm, poisoning the air with the scent of decay.

  The golems turned in unison, their massive forms tense, their ancient eyes glowing with a cold, focused light, their power rising to meet the encroaching darkness.

  From the far edge of the savannah, a figure emerged from the swirling dust and shadows, its approach heralded by a chilling wind that carried the whispers of forgotten screams, a harbinger of the horrors to come. Tall. Impossibly gaunt. Faceless beneath a shifting cloak of smoke and memory, its form a vortex of darkness and decay.

  It did not walk, its feet never quite touching the ground. It glided, its movements unnatural and unsettling, a predator stalking its prey. Shadows bent and twisted towards it, as if drawn by a malevolent gravity, and the ground behind it bckened and withered, the memory of life itself extinguished in its wake, like paper turning to ash near an inferno.

  A voice, ancient and malevolent, slipped between Afobi’s ribs, a whisper that bypassed his ears and invaded his very being, resonating with a power that shook his very soul, a chilling reminder of mortality and the inevitability of oblivion:

  “The past forgets you, son of àiyé. Do you remember it?”

  His knees trembled, the weight of ages pressing down on him, threatening to crush his spirit. The inverted sky above him warped and twisted, consteltions rearranging themselves into grotesque and unholy patterns, their light repced by an encroaching darkness.

  The glyph on his palm burned with an agonizing heat, the bck rot spreading further, consuming the st vestiges of gold, a brand of corruption and a harbinger of doom.

  And the golems stepped forward, their massive forms moving to shield him, their power a bulwark against the encroaching darkness, their presence a promise of protection and a challenge to the encroaching shadows.

  Afobi swallowed, his throat tight with a fear he had never known, a terror that transcended his own mortality, a chilling premonition of the battles to come.

  “I don’t remember everything,” he said, his voice cracking, barely audible above the howling silence. “But I think… I think I’m meant to carry it forward. To make it right. To recim what was lost.”

  The figure said nothing, its faceless gaze fixed on him with an unnerving intensity, its silence a heavy weight that pressed down on his chest. Instead—it split.

  Right down the middle, a wound in its own existence, a tear in the fabric of memory itself, a viotion of the natural order.

  And from that rift stepped another, smaller, denser, more corporeal. Its eyes were pits of rusted iron, burning with a cold, ancient malice, reflecting the city’s neon gre with unnatural intensity. Its chest bore a glyph like Afobi’s—a spiral of power—but twisted and corrupted, leaking shadow and decay, a mockery of life.

  An Ajogun construct. A perversion of memory, a nightmare given form, a creature born from the darkness of the past, a harbinger of the end times.

  It didn’t speak, but a wave of pure hatred washed over Afobi, a psychic scream that threatened to shatter his will, to unravel his sanity, to consume him in the void.

  It charged, its movements a blur of unnatural speed, its intent clear and undeniable: annihition.

  Afobi froze, his body paralyzed by a fear that transcended his own, a terror that rooted him to the spot, a chilling premonition of his own demise.

  The Ajogun reached him in seconds, its shadowy cws reaching out to tear him apart, to extinguish the light of his being, but the fire-forged golem—a burning avatar of divine fury, a force of creation and destruction—intercepted it with a deafening roar. Fme and shadow collided in a blinding explosion, a cataclysm of opposing forces, a battle between life and death. The crack of fire against darkness echoed through the memory realm, a sound that shattered the silence and sent tremors through the very ground beneath their feet. The burst of impact rippled outwards, distorting the memory realm, sending waves of golden dust rising in slow, agonizing waves, like the st breath held by dying gods, a haunting reminder of the fragility of existence.

  Afobi stumbled backward, his heart pounding against his ribs, his senses overwhelmed by the raw power unleashed before him, the csh of ancient forces, the battle for the very soul of the past.

  “I didn’t call him,” he whispered, his voice trembling, his eyes wide with a mixture of fear and awe. “He moved on his own. I didn’t tell him to do that.”

  The glyph on his palm pulsed again, a surge of energy that coursed through his veins, not a command, but a response, a resonance that defied his understanding.

  He understood then, with a chilling crity that both terrified and exhirated him, that the golems weren’t mere weapons, waiting for his orders, puppets dancing to his tune. They were extensions of himself, reflections of his own à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation), his own will given form, his destiny made manifest. They moved in harmony with him, their power echoing his own, their actions guided by a force beyond his comprehension, a connection that transcended the limitations of flesh and blood.

  He raised his hand without conscious thought, his arm moving as if guided by an unseen force, his intent shaping the very fabric of the memory realm, his will becoming the will of the past itself.

  The fire-forged golem responded instantly, another bst of heat erupting from his form, a wave of pure energy that smmed into the Ajogun, knocking it back. It staggered, its shadowy form flickering, its essence unstable, but it didn’t fall, its hunger insatiable.

  It hissed—without breath, a grating, discordant sound like metal scraping against bone, a psychic shriek that assaulted the mind, a viotion of the natural order. The air around it warped and distorted, the memory realm itself recoiling from its corrupting presence, the very ground beneath their feet twisting and contorting.

  The wind-speaker moved next, blurring sideways in a streak of wind, a force that tore at the Ajogun’s shadowy form, stripping away its power and revealing the void beneath. Her arms crossed, generating a vortex of razor-sharp winds that pinned the creature’s limbs, holding it in pce for a fraction of a second, a moment of stillness in the chaos.

  Then the earth-shaker struck the ground with a force that shook the memory realm to its core, the earth groaning in protest, the sound echoing through the ages. Cracks spider-webbed across the ground, and a low, guttural hum vibrated through the air, a sound that resonated with the very core of existence, a primal rhythm that forced the Ajogun to its knees, its shadowy form momentarily subdued.

  The tide-weaver raised her arms, and water, not of this world, but woven from pure memory, formed in mid-air, shimmering with iridescent light, reflecting the faces of the countless lives lost to the darkness. It snaked around the Ajogun’s form, binding it with threads of liquid time, each drop a whisper of a life stolen, a future denied, a ment for a world consumed by shadow.

  Afobi felt it all, the ebb and flow of power, the push and pull of opposing forces, the symphony of destruction and creation pying out before him, a dance of life and death that threatened to overwhelm his senses.

  Each movement of the golems, each surge of energy, each ripple in the memory realm echoed within him, amplifying his own will, focusing his intent, shaping him into a weapon, a conduit for the power of the Orisha (oh-ree-shah - Yoruba deities), their strength flowing through him, guided by his heart, his spirit, his very essence.

  He breathed in the raw power, the weight of ages, the echoes of countless lives, the strength of the ancestors, the fury of the storm, the wisdom of the seas, the resilience of the earth.

  Then spoke, his voice stronger now, imbued with a newfound authority, a command that resonated with the very fabric of the memory realm, a force that demanded obedience from the past itself:

  “??run m?? mí. Aiyé gba mí. à?? s??r??.”

  Heaven knows me. Earth receives me. à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation) speaks.

  Glyphs of power erupted beneath his feet, ancient symbols of creation and dominion, circur and precise, their lines burning with a light that banished the encroaching shadows, a testament to his connection to the divine, a force that resonated with the very essence of life. The golems turned inward, their attention focused on him, their power now flowing through his words, his will given form, their strength his to command, their destinies intertwined with his own.

  The Ajogun shrieked—not in sound, but in static, a discordant scream that grated against the harmony of the memory realm, a psychic assault that threatened to shatter the very foundations of existence, a viotion of the natural order, a bsphemy against the sanctity of time. It lunged again, a desperate, futile attempt to break free from its bindings, to unleash its darkness upon the world.

  But this time, the world itself reacted to Afobi’s command, to the power of à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation) channeled through his voice, to the will of the ancestors made manifest, to the symphony of life rising against the encroaching chaos.

  The earth-shaker raised walls of solidified memory from the ground, barriers of pure history that smmed against the Ajogun’s advance, containing its fury, silencing its rage, binding it with the weight of ages.

  The wind-speaker pushed it sideways with a howling gale of forgotten winds, a force that stripped away yers of its shadowy form, revealing the void beneath, a vortex of destruction that tore at its essence, unraveling its being.

  The fire-forged golem ignited the very air around it, the heat of creation burning away the corruption, consuming it in a cleansing fire, a purifying fme that banished the darkness and restored bance to the realm.

  The tide-weaver wrapped its limbs in tidal currents of memory, each wave a crushing reminder of the lives it had consumed, the futures it had stolen, the pain it had inflicted, until nothing remained but a hollow echo of its former power, a whisper of oblivion.

  And Afobi—he stood tall, his body trembling but his spirit unwavering, his eyes bzing with newfound determination, a beacon of defiance against the encroaching darkness, a conduit for the will of the living and the dead, a vessel for the power of creation and destruction, a force that threatened to reshape the very fabric of existence.

  “I’m not a master yet,” he said aloud, his voice echoing through the memory realm, a decration of his intent, a promise to protect the world, a vow to stand against the tide of oblivion, a challenge to the encroaching darkness.

  “But I’m not running either.”

  He raised his palm, the glyph on his skin fring with the full force of his will, a weapon and a shield, a promise and a threat, a key and a lock, a conduit for the power of creation and destruction, a symbol of his destiny, a testament to his connection to the past and his responsibility for the future.

  “Pada sí ojiji.”

  Return to shadow.

  The Ajogun tried to resist, its shadowy form contorting and twisting, its essence fighting against the ancient command, its hunger insatiable, its malice boundless, its power a perversion of life itself. But the air turned thick with decree, the weight of ages, the power of a thousand voices, the will of the living and the dead, channeled through Afobi’s being, a force that transcended time and space, a symphony of existence itself.

  à?? (ah-sheh - divine essence, the sacred force that shaped creation) didn’t plead.

  It pronounced judgment.

  Light fred, brighter than any sun, hotter than any forge, a wave of pure creative force that washed over the corrupted entity, obliterating its form and silencing its malevolence, restoring bance to the memory realm, banishing the darkness and reciming the light, reaffirming the sanctity of time and the enduring power of creation.

  The Ajogun unraveled, its shadowy form colpsing in on itself, its essence unraveling like ash into wind, its hunger extinguished, its darkness consumed by the light, its static scream silenced by the harmony of the universe, leaving behind only the faint scent of ozone and the echo of its dying shriek, a haunting reminder of the fragility of existence and the ever-present threat of oblivion.

  Silence followed, profound and absolute, the memory realm holding its breath, the weight of ages settling back into the earth, the echoes of countless lives fading into a gentle hum, a lulby of the past.

  Afobi colpsed to his knees, his body drained but his spirit soaring, his mind finally at peace, his heart filled with a fragile hope and a burgeoning sense of purpose, a feeling that he had faced the darkness and emerged, if not unscathed, then… transformed, forever bound to the echoes of the past and the promise of the future.

  The pendant warmed against his chest, a comforting presence, a familiar heartbeat in the silence, a reminder of a bond that transcended time and space, a promise of unwavering love and support, a connection that grounded him in the present.

  The golems stood still, their massive forms radiating an ancient satisfaction, their purpose fulfilled for now, their power contained yet palpable. Watching. Waiting.

  Above, the inverted sky realigned itself, the swirling stars shimmering and settling into a new, more harmonious pattern, the consteltions sighing with relief, their light returning to its former glory, their dance a celebration of life renewed.

  Something had shifted, a bance restored, a wound in the fabric of memory mended, a darkness pushed back by the power of creation, a victory hard-won.

  In the distance, beyond the edge of the savannah, another ripple formed in the fabric of reality—subtle, wide, ominous, a tremor in the tapestry of existence, a premonition of trials yet to come.

  Another portal?

  No.

  A warning, a chilling reminder that the world was changing, that the past was not done with them yet, that the darkness was still stirring.

  A second trial was coming, he knew with a chilling certainty that settled deep in his bones, a certainty that defied logic and reason, a knowledge imprinted on his very soul, a truth whispered by the wind and etched in the glyphs of his destiny.

  It would not ask permission.

  It was already here, its arrival inevitable, its power undeniable, its purpose shrouded in darkness, its presence a promise of war, a harbinger of the end times, a force that threatened to consume them all, to plunge the world into an eternal night.

  The air tasted like lightning. The ground shook with a distant, thunderous rhythm, a prelude to the coming storm. The Ajogun were coming. What do you think they want, and what will the drums of war unleash upon this world?