A Slave’s Ascension

Chapter 5: Sins of Mercy

Obinna and his soldiers marched out of the forest in heavy silence. Rain still clung to the trees and mud clung to their boots. The unconscious boy hung over a soldier's shoulder, limp and drenched like a rag doll. Obinna walked ahead, his thoughts weighing him down.

“What have I done?”

He couldn't get the seer's prophecyout of his mind. She had instructedhim to kill the boy, but Obinna just couldn't do such a thing. The boyhad lost everything: his mother, his home. To kill him would be a crime against the gods themselves.

Behind them, another soldier carried the woman’s body. Obinna glanced back, his heart heavy. She deserved a proper burial. Maybe it would be the first step toward gaining the boy’s trust.

As they came out of the forest, into the clearing, the village was in view. Smoke billowed from shattered huts, and the square was packed with terrified villagers under the gaze of Obinna's men. Mothers held their children close, and the elderly satstaring with worn-out eyes.

Obinna’s gaze swept over them, but he kept walking. He would deal with them in the morning. Right now, he had to think about his next steps, and about the boy.

They walked towards the chieftain's compound at the middle of the village. Four huts stood in a crescent shape around a large courtyard. One belonged to the dead chieftain, another to his wife, the third to his also dead son, and the fourth served as a guest house. A small barn stood at the back, its thatched roof sagging from the rain.

“Take the boy inside,” Obinna ordered. “And have the woman’s body prepared for burial. Make sure the villagers handle it according to their customs.”

“Yes, General,” one of his lieutenants said, gesturing for others to carry out the orders.

Obinna pushed open the door to the largest hut. The inside was dark and smelled of smoke and damp wood. Animal skins covered the floor, and clay pots lined the shelves along the walls.

He crossed the room and found a mat near the corner. The soldier lowered the boy onto it. Ikenna’s face was pale, his hair matted with mud, and tear tracks, but his breathing was steady.

Obinna stood over him for a moment, his jaw clenched. The seer’s prophecy whispered at the edges of his mind, but he forced it down. Right now, the boy was just a child—broken, vulnerable, and alone.

“You’ll live,” he whispered quietly. “But what will you become?”

He turned toward the door, his mind already calculating his next moves. The chieftain’s hut would serve as his base for now. He needed to establish order in the village, assess his supplies, and decide how to handle the villagers. But above all, he needed answers about the boy

---

Ikenna’s eyes fluttered open, and the dull throb in his head quickly turned into a sharp, pounding ache. He groaned, wincing as he tried to sit up. The room spun around him—a dimly lit space with clay walls and the faint smell of wood smoke. Animal skins covered the floor, and a single lantern flickered by the wall.

Confused, he blinked, trying to piece together where he was. The last thing he remembered was... the storm. His mother’s body. The soldiers.

Then he saw him.

Obinna.

The general sat cross-legged on the other side of the room, sharpening a blade with long, deliberate strokes. It was the only sound in the room - asoft scraping of metal on stone.

Anger flared inside Ikenna, hotter than the pain in his head. His fists were clenched, and he struggled to his feet, his legs wobbly beneath him.

“You!” he shouted, his voice hoarse.

Obinna glanced up calmly, his expression unreadable.

Before the man could say a word, Ikenna charged at him, his tiny fists swinging wildly. He hit Obinna’s chest, shoulders, and arms, but it was like punching a boulder. The general didn’t flinch. He just let the boy rage, his face stern but not unkind.

Ikenna’s blows grew weaker and slower until his arms hung limp at his sides. His breathing was ragged, and tears stung his eyes. He stumbled back, panting.

Obinna set the blade down and leaned forward, resting his forearms on his knees.

“You done?” he asked quietly.

Ikenna glared at him, his chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.

“What’s your name?” Obinna asked.

Silence.

“You hungry?”

Nothing.

Obinna’s brow furrowed, but he didn’t press. Instead, he said something that made Ikenna’s heart stop.

“Your mother...”

Ikenna’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and wild.

Obinna’s voice softened. “I’ve made arrangements to bury her properly. According to your people’s customs.”

Ikenna’s lips trembled, but he said nothing.

“I’ll take you there,” Obinna continued, “but only if you eat something first. And clean yourself up.”

Ikenna’s face twisted in defiance, but the mention of his mother had weakened his resolve.

“Deal?” Obinna asked, his tone firm but patient.

For a long moment, Ikenna stared at him, torn between anger and grief. Finally, he gave a reluctant nod.

“Good,” Obinna said, standing up. “Let’s get you sorted.”

Obinna led Ikenna through the village, their path guarded by soldiers who kept watchful eyes on the gathered villagers. Word had spread of the burial, and some of the villagers were allowed to attend, though they kept their distance under the watchful gaze of Obinna’s men.

Ikenna walked in silence, his face stiff, but his heart a storm of emotions. As they approached a familiar compound, his breath fastened. Memories flooded his mind—his mother’s laughter, the scent of freshly cooked meals, and the warmth that had once filled the air.

They stopped near the entrance. Obinna pointed toward the hut with its weathered walls and thatched roof.

“She’s inside,” Obinna said gently. “You can take a minute to pay your respects.”

Ikenna’s steps faltered. His feet felt heavy, as though each step carried the weight of a thousand regrets. He didn’t want to go in. He didn’t want to face the truth waiting for him behind that door.

But he had to.

His legs trembled as he pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air was thick and still, filled with the faint scent of herbs his mother always kept around. Sunlight filtered through the cracks in the walls, casting soft beams across the room.

There she was, lying on a mat in the center of the room, draped in a simple white cloth. Her face was serene, as though she had simply fallen asleep.

For a moment, Ikenna dared to believe it was true—that she would wake up, smile at him, and ruffle his hair in that loving way she always did.

But he knew better.

A sob tore from his throat as he fell to his knees beside her.

“Mama,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “I’m sorry… I’m so sorry.”

Tears streamed down his face as he gripped her hand, cold and unresponsive.

“I should have stayed,” he choked out. “I should have fought by your side. Maybe—maybe you’d still be here.”

The room echoed with his grief. His chest heaved as he cried, releasing all the pain and guilt he had carried since that night.

Who would tell him stories of the gods now? Who would guide him when he felt lost? Who would love him like only a mother could?

He clung to her as though holding on would keep her memory alive forever.

Time seemed to blur until Obinna’s voice cut through the haze from the doorway.

“It’s time, Ikenna.”

Ikenna wiped his face with trembling hands. His heart felt shattered, but he knew this was the last act he could do for her—to see her buried with dignity.

He stood up slowly, his legs unsteady but his resolve firm.

“I’ll make you proud, Mama,” he whispered. “I promise.”