The plains of the Yoruba cracked behind him. Smoke rose from rivers that once sang, mountains lay broken, and the Orishas struggled to hold what was left. Yet Zeus did not pause. His storm rolled forward, sparks hissing as if impatient. He had bled, yes, but his grin had not dimmed. This land was vast, its gods many, and he intended to see them all.
The wind shifted. The scent of wet earth, thick forests, and drums carried on the breeze. The storm above bent toward it, pulled as though the sky itself pointed him to the next throne. Zeus stepped across the blackened soil, lightning walking with him.
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The Igbo realm opened not with palaces or rivers but with trees that swallowed the horizon. Forests layered thick, canopies stacked like cathedrals. In their shade burned fires of red clay, shrines humming with power. Every tree root whispered a name. Every drumbeat in the distance carried weight.
From the heart of that forest came the first figure.
