A Slave’s Ascension

Chapter 4: Fated Encounter

Obinna, flanked by his soldiers, was close to the forest’s edge when he heard a commotion coming from inside the forest. The sorrowful, anguished cries of a boy echoed through the trees, rising above the patter of the rain. Obinna slowed, his ears straining. Something about the voice drew him toward the disturbance.

“What’s going on over there?” he asked one of his lieutenants, who only shrugged.

Before anyone could respond, a flash of lightning tore through the dark sky, illuminating the path ahead. The thunder that followed was deafening and wild, almost unnatural. Obinna glanced upward with narrowed eyes, an uneasy feeling clawing at his heart.

"Strange," he muttered under his breath, spurring his soldiers forward. “Stay close. I want to see this for myself.”

The group hastened their pace, spreading across the forest but not forgetting their training. Soon, they arrived at a small clearing — and that’s when they saw it.

A boy, no older than ten, cradled a woman’s lifeless body in his arms. The boy was screaming at the sky, his voice filled with anguish. With every scream, the heavens answered. Thunder roared as if mourning alongside him, and lightning danced across the clouds, bathing the scene in a mysterious aura.

Obinna halted, frozen, his gaze fixed on the boy. A strange sense of familiarity stirred within him.

The sight of the boy's anger and grief—and the sky reacting to him—clawed at Obinna’s mind, dragging him back to a memory from before the conquest.

---

A narrow bush path stretched before Obinna as he walked with steady, deliberate steps. A sheep trailed behind him, its rope held loosely in his calloused hand. The red and white beads around his neck and wrists jingled softly with each step.

He was dressed in a simple wrapper tied at his waist, its deep blue fabric reaching nearly to his ankles. A matching strip of cloth hung across his shoulders. His red, round cap sat firmly atop his head, an eagle’s feather rising proudly from its side—a symbol of his status. The air smelled of earth and damp leaves, with the faint scent of rain lingering in the distance.

As was customary before any campaign, he had made his sacrifices to Ikenga, the god of strength and achievement. Now, he was on his way to see the seer. The goat’s bleating would soon be silenced on the seer’s altar.

The seer’s hut was hidden deep in the forest, surrounded by a circle of ancient white trees whose twisted branches rose like skeletal fingers, weaving the threads of fate. Smoke rose from the hut’s roof as Obinna approached, and the faint scent of burning herbs filled the air.

The seer was already waiting for him outside, her frame stooped with age but her presence commanding. Her sparse hair was white as ash, with balding patches. Her eyes were clouded yet unnervingly sharp.

“Obinna,” she said, her voice low and rough. “Have you come to know your fate?”

“I have,” he replied, bowing his head respectfully.

She waved at him to follow her. She led him around the hut to the back, where her altar was located. It was an open structure with walls barely reaching his waist, lined with charms and relics of past rituals. Thick wooden pillars supported the thatched roof.

The seer knelt before a low altar, where a bowl rested alongside a bundle of feathers and bones. Obinna set the sheep down beside her. With a quick, practiced motion, the seer drew a blade and ended the sheep’s life.

Blood spilled into the bowl. Still holding the blade, she took Obinna’s hand and slashed his palm, mixing his blood with that of the sheep. She picked up the bowl and brought it to her mouth, taking large gulps before pouring the rest on Obinna’s head. She then proceeded to cut the goat open and spill its entrails, muttering incantations under her breath. Her gaze grew distant as if peering into another world.

When she finally spoke, her voice howled as though coming from another dimension.

“You will triumph in the battle ahead, Obinna. Your strength will shatter kingdoms, and your name will be written in the sands of time.”

This elicited no reaction from Obinna. He was not one to enjoy conquest—he was simply following the orders of his king—but it felt good to know he would succeed.

“Yet... with your victory will come a great responsibility.”

She raised her gaze to meet him, her cloudy eyes piercing through him.

“There is a storm waiting for you, a boy born of rage and grief. His pain will shake the heavens, and his anger will burn brighter than any flame. Beware, Obinna, for his path is tied to yours. You will cross him when you least expect it, and he will test the limits of your strength.”

“The boy's fate is so heavy that he will either destroy our world or be the one to save us from untold evil.”

As she finished the prophecy, she collapsed to the floor, panting and sweating. It took a minute for her to recollect herself. When she did, she stared at Obinna with dread.

“You have to kill him, Obinna. The boy is dangerous,” she urged.

Obinna paid her no heed, lost in thought as he contemplated the prophecy.

---

Obinna blinked, shaking off the memory as he stared at the boy before him. Then he looked up at the raging storm in the sky, recognizing the signs foretold by the prophecy.

“General?” one of his soldiers called hesitantly, snapping him back to the present.

Obinna clenched his fists, his unease deepening. The seer’s words echoed repeatedly in his heart as he approached the boy cautiously, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade.

The boy’s gaze snapped toward him as he approached, his tear-streaked face twisting with anger. His small hands gripped a bloodied knife tightly as he rose unsteadily to his feet.

“YOU!” he screamed, his voice raw and trembling. The storm seemed to echo his cry, the thunder booming as the boy charged forward.

The boy’s attacks were telegraphed and easy to read. Obinna easily sidestepped the wild attack, his hand lashing out with precision. The boy crumpled to the ground, unconscious—his small body no match for the general’s strength.

Obinna stood over him, his chest heaving, his hand still on his blade. He contemplated what the seer had told him: to kill the boy. Then he glanced down at the lifeless woman in the mud, the dead soldier beside her, and then back at the boy.

“I can’t do it,” he muttered to himself. “He is just a child.”

“Take him,” Obinna ordered his men, his voice colder than he intended.

“General, what about—”

“I said take him,” he snapped. “And bring the woman. We will bury her.”

As his soldiers obeyed, Obinna cast one last glance at the boy. The seer’s words echoed in his mind.

“A boy born of rage and grief... His pain will shake the heavens.”

Obinna turned and walked away, his steps heavy with the weight of a future he could no longer ignore.