The air over Africa hung heavy, thick with the scent of scorched earth and salt-soaked rivers. Zeus stood at the edge of a vast savanna, where the horizon burned gold under a sky bruised with his storm. His boots sank into the cracked ground, sparks dancing off his shoulders like fireflies. The continent trembled faintly beneath him, as if it still felt the weight of his conquests. Yoruba's flames had dimmed, Igbo's forests bowed, and Ijaw's deltas flowed in submission. The gods of this land, ancient and proud, had knelt before him, their power now threads woven into his storm.
He exhaled, and the clouds above churned, spitting lightning that split the dusk. His crimson eyes scanned the endless plain, searching for the next challenge, the next throne. The air pulsed, not with thunder, but with something deeper—a hum that sank into his bones. His grin flickered. Something was coming.
