Chapter 54 : Homecoming
Philip stepped off the bus at Garage, his feet landing softly on familiar soil for the first time in years.
He stood still for a moment.
The sun was beginning to set, casting a hazy orange glow over the roads. People bustled past, shouting, laughing, bartering—but it all felt distant. He needed to walk. From Garage to Ebute was normally a 30-minute journey, but with mana subtly guiding his steps, he arrived in just under five minutes.
He didn't rush.
He thought.
What would he tell them?
Not the truth. Not yet.
The truth—that he had awakened in a pyramid surrounded by creatures from beyond, had fought through hidden worlds, and had returned as something more than human—that truth would break them. His mom was spiritual and related what she didn't understand with the workings of the devil
No. He needed something believable. Something grounded in pain.
So, as he walked, he built his story.
By the time he stood at the front gate of his childhood home in Ebuti, his heart was steady. He reached out, knocked.
The door opened.
And his mother screamed.
Her voice cracked, trembled, broke into sobs as she pulled him into her arms.
"Philip... Philip...!" she cried over and over, her tears soaking into his shirt.
His father stood in the doorway, silent. Not emotionless—but unreadable. The old man simply nodded as Philip was pulled inside.
His brother hovered in the hallway, arms crossed. His sister gasped and covered her mouth, shaking as she stared at him.
In the living room, Philip told his story.
The air was thick with silence.
He sat on the couch beneath the steady hum of the ceiling fan. The blades creaked with each rotation, slicing through the humid evening like time itself grinding forward. He hadn't spoken much since walking through the gate. Not to his parents, not to the neighbors peeking through their curtains. But now, in the room where he'd once done homework and watched cartoons on, he opened his mouth.
"I was kidnapped," he said quietly. "I don't know who sent them. Maybe a competitor… maybe someone who saw something in me I didn't see myself."
His father shifted forward, arms resting on his knees. His mother clutched the hem of her wrapper tighter.
"They beat me. Drugged me. Tied me up with something. Then they threw me into the sea."
His voice trembled—not from fear, but memory.
"I should've died."
He stared past them, into the shadowy corridor beyond the sitting room, as if seeing that night again—the cold water swallowing him, the stars blinking overhead like silent witnesses.
"But I didn't. I woke up days later on a beach near Cotonou. No ID. No memory. Not even a name. Just... pain. And salt in my lungs."
His mother's hand flew to her mouth. His father went still.
"I wandered for days. The sun nearly killed me. I stole food. Slept in abandoned boats. People avoided me like I was cursed. But a fisherman found me. He took me in. His family gave me water, fed me. I stayed with them."
He paused.
"For months, I lived in that village. I helped mend nets. Learned to fish. It wasn't home, but it was… peaceful."
Then his eyes darkened.
"Then came the militants."
He didn't need to explain who. In that region, everyone knew the kinds of men who stormed villages with machetes and ancient rifles. Who took what they wanted and burned the rest.
"They attacked without warning. Burned houses. Took hostages. Killed the fisherman who saved me."
A long silence.
"I was captured again. But this time... mercenaries came. Foreigners. Silent. Efficient. They killed the militants like they were clearing pests. One of them looked at me—really looked at me. Said I had the body of a fighter."
"They gave me a choice: stay and die like a civilian, or follow them."
"I followed."
He exhaled, eyes flickering with the memory of deserts, jungles, and barren ruins.
"For three years, I was with them. Trained like a dog. Weapons. Languages. Combat. Meditation.. They called it discipline.
He shook his head slowly.
"But it never ended. Every few months, we were sent to another hotspot. Another target. Another betrayal. We were dogs on leashes tied to masters who never showed their faces."
"Then... the village we were sheltering in got hit."
He tapped his temple lightly.
"A grenade went off. I hit my head on a stone wall."
"And everything came back."
A pause. He looked up at his parents for the first time in the conversation. His mother's eyes were brimming. His father was pale, his jaw tight.
"Not all at once. But enough. Enough to know I had another name. A real name. That I'd been someone before.
He touched the center of his chest, as if searching for something.
"The moment I remembered who I was... I left. I had to come home. Not just for answers. But for grounding. To know what part of me was still real."
His mother reached across the table and placed her hand gently over his.
"You're home now."
His mother never stopped crying. She held onto his hand like he would vanish again.
His father only stared at the wall. Then finally spoke.
"You're home. That's what matters."
But his brother Nathaniel —his sharp eyes tracked every word. He didn't say much. Just narrowed his eyes and murmured:
"We'll talk later."
Philip understood.
Later that night, as the house grew quiet, Philip called Nathaniel and his sister Amaka into the backyard.
There, under the dim glow of the security bulb, he whispered:
"That story I told them... it's not the full truth."
They both turned to him sharply.
"I need you two to trust me. Not just as your brother—but as someone who's seen things... beyond this world."
"I'm telling you now, because I'll need your help. To keep them safe. To stay hidden. Until I'm ready."
Nathaniel didn't say anything for a while.
Then finally:
"So... are you really Philip?"
Philip gave a tired smile.
"I am.