The black fabric of Layla's niqab, usually her only shield, was now just a dirty, torn mess. Dirt clung to it, making the dark material look dull and worn. A violent wind blew near the jagged tear near Layla's waist showed a sliver of skin, a glimpse of the bruising purple beneath. She clutched at the ripped edges, a useless effort to hide the wound, to hide the deep shame that felt heavier than the dusty air. The storm was the only witness of the atrocious actions from which she suffered. With every slow, painful step she took towards home, the fabric shifted, showing another small part of the disgrace she carried. Layla's face, peeking through the eye-slit of the niqab, was already covered in fresh bruises – a blossoming purple on her cheekbone, a split lip that tasted faintly of iron.
Anxiety, cold and sharp, twisted in Layla's stomach. It wasn't just the physical pain; it was the suffocating dread of what waited for Layla behind the familiar, cracked mud walls of her house. She can see it through the storm and the violent dust kicked up by it. Stormy days are not rear in this part of the world but this particular stormy felt eerie. Layla half-hoped, a foolish, desperate whisper in her mind, that her father, for once, would stand up for her. But the thought slowly died, as she remembered who her father truly was, what the old goat demands. Nothing but unfailing submission.
The women, hiding behind the narrow doorways of their compounds, watched Layla. Their eyes, visible over their own clean veils, were sharp with judgment. Low murmurs, like the a bunch of caged birds followed Layla.
"Disgraceful."
"Tarnishing our image."
"Shameless."
Each word more venomous than the last felt like a stone, hitting Layla deeper than any fist. The men, though, were worse. Sitting outside mud-brick tea houses, they stopped their talking, their stares lingering on Layla's exposed waist, on her battered face. They spat, a slow, deliberate act that carried a the degregatory intent, their lecherous eyes stripping away what little dignity Layla had left. Layla kept her head down, fixed on the uneven ground, praying for the earth to swallow her whole. Her prayers went unanswered.
Alone walking limpingly to her 'home' in this terrible storm.
Ahead, clear against the hot Central African sun, stood Layla's father. Baba. He was by the door of their half-broken house, its paint long gone, cracks like thirsty vines climbing the walls. Beside him, like a snake spitting venom, was the boy. Yusuf. His clean white jalabiya shone, perfect and untouched by the dirt and fight. Yusuf, the community's golden boy, always praised, always perfect. He looked scared, maybe. Or maybe it was just an act, a hint of triumph in his eyes that only she could see. She could can still see him whispering God knows what to her father, not that it matters anymore, her 'father already made up his mind.
Baba's face was frozen in cold anger, his eyes holding a disappointment. The moment Layla saw him, saw his jaw set, his shoulders stiff, she knew. He had already decided. There would be no questions, no chance for Layla to tell her side. Despair, heavy and suffocating, settled over Layla.
"Shame," Baba's voice boomed, cutting through the heavy air, the single word dripping with disgust. "Shame! You bring shame upon this house, upon my name." He repeated it, a constant condemnation. "Come closer, girl! Come here!"
Layla shuffled forward, her bruised body aching with every step. "Baba, please," Layla whispered, the word "sorry" stuck in her throat. Layla's eyes, wide and pleading, begged him to see, to understand, but his gaze stayed hard, unforgiving. He only repeated his demand, his voice getting tougher. "Closer!"
As Layla stepped into his reach, the whip came down. Like fire across her back. She cried out, stumbling, but the blows kept coming, a constant rain of pain. Layla fell to the ground, her life flashing before her eyes, instinctively curling up, her arms trying to shield her head as the whip snaked around her, finding skin, leaving burning red marks. The taste of blood, sharp and metallic, filled Layla's mouth as her lip split even more. Through blurry eyes, as Layla lay there, trying to be small, to be obedient, Layla saw Yusuf. He was smiling. A slow, winning curl of his lips. He had won.
Pain, sharper than the whip, twisted in Layla's gut. It was the pain of betrayal. Her father, the man who should protect her, didn't ask. He didn't ask what really happened to her. He just blamed. The weight of a lifetime of being told to be quiet, to be modest, to be invisible, to just take it, surged up. Layla's body shook not from the cold, but from a rage that had nowhere to go, no voice. Layla slowly, stubbornly, pushed herself up.
"Kneel, girl!" Baba roared, the whip whistling through the air, hitting Layla's legs, Layla's arms. "No woman stands before a man! You will kneel!"
He kept whipping, the blows tearing at Layla's clothes, leaving fiery streaks. But Layla wouldn't react. She wouldn't fall. Layla wouldn't give him the satisfaction of her pain. It was as if her body had disconnected, a stubborn vessel refusing to bend. Layla's father's face twisted in fury, annoyed by her silent refusal. The whip stopped. His hand shot out, slapping Layla across the face, then punching, hard, merciless hits that rocked her head. Still, Layla kept getting back up, shaking, but standing.
Really angry now, Baba grabbed the torn fabric of Layla's niqab, ripping it completely off Layla's head. The worst punishment. Layla's dark hair, usually hidden, fell around her bruised face. The community gasped, a shared shock. It was like being thrown out of society, the final sign of total disgrace.
"Your dead mother's soul will be disappointed in you!" Baba spat, his voice thick with hatred.
Those words, about her mother, hit Layla like a raw nerve. That was it. That was the last, unforgivable cut. All the pain, all the shame, all the hidden anger exploded. Layla didn't think. Layla just acted. With a desperate, animal-like cry, Layla shoved her father. Hard.
He stumbled back, shock on his face, before falling to the dusty ground. The whip clattered beside him. Silence fell over the stunned onlookers. Yusuf's winning smile vanished, replaced by open-mouthed shock. Layla, a woman, had put her hands on her father. The biggest forbidden act. They gasped in horror, stepping back, their faces filled with fear and pure disgust. Layla had truly thrown away any idea of decency they believed women should have.
In that frozen moment of everyone's horror, a bright, terrifying bolt of energy tore through the sky. It wasn't the slow, rumbling thunder of a storm coming. This was a ray like thunder brimming with raw power. It came down with a soundless, powerful whoosh, hitting her right in the middle. For a tiny moment, Layla's bruised face, lit up by the strange glow, held a flicker of defiance, of freedom, before she disappeared. There was no explosion, no smoke left, just the lingering smell of ozone and the terrifying empty space where she had been.
Silence. Then whispers. "God has punished her." "A demon!" "It is divine judgment!"
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Somewhere in China, in a bustling market. A similar ray like thunder hit Tian Lei. His mother dumbfounded, wondering where her son was.
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In London, in a cathedral. The choir slowly harmonizing when the ray like bolt of lightning struck the lead female, Celine.
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An unknown amount of people estimated to be in the thousands where struck by thunder. This is the starting event of subsequent events that changed the world as we know it.
This event will later be known as the ascension of the vanguards.