The morning mist curled softly through the Viridian Jungle as the fire Chizoba and Omo had kindled began to sputter, its last embers glowing dim beneath the weight of dew. They moved cautiously, their ears alert for movement, their eyes scanning the underbrush. Then, nestled between a pair of massive, root-wrapped stones, they spotted a figure sprawled across the forest floor.
He was clutching a sword in one hand, knuckles white against the hilt, and wore a tattered battle robe soaked with sweat, dirt, and crushed foliage. His hair was matted, his face slack from exhaustion. Omo immediately scanned the area for signs of a trap, but Chizoba stepped forward, crouching beside the man. He placed two fingers to the stranger's neck.
"He's alive," Chizoba muttered.
They didn't have much time. It was nearly nightfall, and the place seemed quiet—too quiet, in fact—but it was ideal for a temporary camp. Chizoba began clearing space while Omo activated a low-burning Ember spark. They laid the man beside the fire, removed his outer robe, and offered a canteen of fresh water from their stores.
The man stirred with a gasp, eyes fluttering open, and upon seeing the water, practically snatched the canteen from Omo's hand. He drank greedily—guzzling until nothing was left but the hollow slosh of an empty vessel. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, leaned back with a contented sigh, and looked between his two rescuers.
"By the gods' roasted ankles, that's the best thing I've ever tasted!" His voice boomed with such unexpected vigor that Omo blinked in surprise.
Before either Chizoba or Omo could ask a single question, the man sat upright, his expression bright and animated. "You two have the faces of heroes. Or maybe mercenaries—hmm, you're not bounty hunters, are you? No, too well-dressed. But look at this!" He gestured broadly. "Real people! I've been talking to birds for three days!"
Chizoba raised a brow. Omo looked at him, uncertain whether to be amused or concerned.
"Who are you?" Omo finally asked.
"Ah, yes! Of course." He stood up shakily and gave a dramatic bow, sword still in one hand. "I am Ayo—Ayo the Laughing Death! Though not many know the name. Yet. Yet! Soon, they'll sing about me in every fire-hut from here to the borders of Nri-Ulo."
Chizoba narrowed his eyes. "Never heard of you."
Ayo didn't miss a beat. "Exactly! That's the point! I'm a swordsman—unclaimed, untitled, uncelebrated. A humble blade looking for purpose... and perhaps a decent stew."
He reached into his cloak and pulled out a piece of half-dried fruit from his pocket. He sniffed it, shrugged, and bit off half of it.
"I was hunting down a cult that's been causing trouble in the border villages of Orun-Saa. Heard they're some kind of dark priesthood or demon-worshippers—horrible lot. So I marched in, swinging, ready to cut off the head of the snake." He looked around sheepishly. "Got very lost."
"Clearly," Omo said, arms crossed.
"I was this close to eating tree bark," Ayo added dramatically. "The jungle's a cruel cook. Doesn't season anything!"
Chizoba exchanged a look with Omo. There was something about this man—boisterous, loud, entirely incapable of reading a room—but sincere in a way that was difficult to fake.
As if to confirm this, Ayo continued, now pacing around the camp, gesturing with his sword as if it were an extension of his arm. "I've had one dream since I was a boy—become a legend. Not for gold. Not for glory. But because I've got the hands for it. I'm good with a blade, and even better at finishing my meals. Speaking of which…"
Omo handed him a strip of dried meat, and he practically melted in gratitude. "Ahh. You're a saint! A spicy-scented, iron-hearted saint."
"You talk a lot," Chizoba said.
"I burn fast and talk faster," Ayo replied with a grin. "It's a gift. Makes campfires less miserable."
They let him eat for a while in peace, though peace was relative—Ayo chewed loudly and commented after every bite, comparing food to swords, duels, and life-threatening injuries.
"I once had a stew so rich I nearly married the cook. Swore to avenge her death when I learned she just moved out of town."
Omo was halfway through a sigh when Ayo suddenly stopped chewing. His eyes narrowed. He looked at both of them with a sudden seriousness that changed the atmosphere like a flipped switch.
"You're hunting the cult too, aren't you?" he said, quiet now, voice tight.
Both Omo and Chizoba tensed. The fire crackled.
"Yes," Chizoba said finally. "We are."
Ayo slowly slid the last bit of meat into his mouth and stood straighter. "I'm glad I found you, then. I'm no joke when it comes to tracking. No maps. No guides. Just the scent of ash, blood, and broken gods."
Omo tilted her head. "You tracked them that far?"
"I did. Got close too—close enough to see one of their glyphs scorched into a tree trunk like a warning. Didn't stop me. But I underestimated the jungle."
Chizoba looked impressed despite himself. "No guide? No markers?"
"I followed the way the birds flew, the unnatural silence in some parts of the jungle, and the bones. Always the bones. Cults never clean up well." Ayo grinned again, but this time it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Omo and Chizoba moved a short distance away and whispered.
"He's loud," she murmured.
"Too loud."
"He might be useful, though. If he tracked the Riftborn that far…"
"He reminds me of Ife. But louder."
"She turned on us."
"And he might, too."
"But… he's also funny. In a maddening way."
Chizoba gave her a dry look. "That's how they get you."
They returned to the fire. Ayo was poking at the embers with the flat of his blade.
"We're hunting them," Omo said. "If you want to help, fine. But we work as a team."
"Team," Ayo repeated with an exaggerated nod. "Like a stew—every flavor must blend, or it all tastes like sour yam."
"Sure," Omo said flatly.
"Then I'm in! I'm good with a blade, fair with traps, and better at staying up late talking if we're bored. Just don't expect me to wake up early unless something's on fire."
As the night crept on and the fire dimmed, Ayo finally grew quiet, staring into the flames. The boisterous edge faded, and something harder set into his face.
"When we find them," he said softly, "I won't hold back. They burned my village's harvest. Took my uncle. I'm going to make them bleed for it."
Chizoba watched him for a long moment. Then gave a single nod.
The strange swordsman may not have had a reputation. He may have been loud, hungry, and irritatingly cheerful. But there was no mistaking the focus that ignited in his eyes when the Riftborn were mentioned.
They had gained a third companion. One who laughed too hard and ate too much, but who carried a blade that—perhaps—was not just for show.
….......
The fire had died down to a soft glow, casting long shadows across their small jungle clearing. Above them, the canopy of ancient trees murmured with nocturnal life—hushed birdsong, the rustle of leaves, the occasional distant growl of some unseen creature. The moon's pale light filtered through in fractured beams, touching down like silver thread on moss, bark, and bone.
Omo leaned back against a thick root, her Ember visor folded up and tucked away, lips moving silently as she counted seconds before sleep took her. Chizoba sat cross-legged a little apart, eyes closed but not relaxed. His healing meditation had already been done earlier; now he was just pretending. Still, his breathing was steady, slow, the kind that disguised awareness.
They had split the night watch into thirds—Omo first, then Ayo, then Chizoba to finish the stretch before dawn. But as Omo dozed and the new swordsman quietly took his seat beside the fire, Chizoba made a decision.
He wouldn't sleep. Not during Ayo's shift.
He wasn't sure yet if it was instinct or paranoia. Ife had taught him not to trust first impressions. She, too, had once been loud and useful. Friendly. So even though Ayo hadn't shown any ill intent, Chizoba refused to leave Omo vulnerable again. His muscles remained loose beneath his cloak, ready. One eye half-lidded behind the veil of stillness. His senses swept the chi currents around the camp in slow, deliberate pulses.
Ayo didn't immediately move.
He simply sat at first, cradling his sword like one might hold a child, the polished scabbard resting across his legs. The blade was old, its wrapping frayed at the handle, and the guard a little worn, but it was clearly well-kept. Revered, even. There was an odd reverence to how he touched it—like a man tending to an altar.
Then, without a word, Ayo stood.
He took a step away from the fire, found a flat space, and drew the sword in one smooth motion. No flourish, no dramatic flair. Just a clean, practiced pull that sang faintly in the silence. Chizoba's inner awareness sharpened.
Ayo began to move.
The first forms were simple. Linear. Almost lazy. A step forward, downward slice. A pivot. A mid-guard sweep. Cuts drawn not for war but memory—muscle remembering its patterns, feet aligning with old rhythms. Chizoba had seen many warriors drill in solitude before, some like machines, others like dancers. But Ayo's motions straddled the border. Precise, yes, but... loose. Natural. Like his blade wasn't just a tool—it was an extension of how he breathed.
After a few minutes, the patterns began to change.
The forms folded in on themselves, one bleeding into the next. Footwork became more fluid. Feints emerged—cuts halted mid-swing, reversed into wide, spiraling arcs. His movements circled like smoke, deceptively relaxed but never uncontrolled. Every now and then, he would pause to adjust his footing slightly, mutter something under his breath—"No, not like that"—and reset.
And then he'd try again.
Chizoba watched it all, hidden behind his false stillness. At first, he dismissed it as posturing. Then... curiosity crept in. The man wasn't just showing off. He was thinking with the sword. Feeling through problems that weren't just physical—questions Chizoba could sense, unspoken yet sharp-edged. This was not a soldier's kata. It wasn't even a ritual. It was searching.
Ayo spun low, drew his blade upward in a slicing crescent, then retreated with an elegant backward step, sword held in reverse grip. It was like he'd stitched one fighting style into another—some from formal training, others improvised, stolen from personal experience. Yet none of it looked awkward. Somehow, it all worked.
The firelight caught on the arc of his blade as he turned. His face was focused now, lips pressed into a line, sweat slicking his forehead. Gone was the endless appetite, the jokes, the loud bravado. In its place was something quieter. Clearer. A sharpness honed not by anger or vengeance—but by purpose. Each strike spoke of that purpose. He wasn't simply training. He was remembering something. Holding something in place with each move, like if he stopped, it would vanish.
Chizoba couldn't help but be drawn in.
The sword forms—especially in the second half—were mesmerizing. Even to someone like Chizoba, whose path had always been Chi and spirit. There was a strange truth to the way Ayo moved. A sense of understanding, of belonging, between man and weapon. Even the jungle seemed to pause—night insects droned in a distant rhythm now, as though unwilling to interrupt.
Then came a sequence so intricate that Chizoba nearly opened his eyes fully: a six-part form, beginning with a lunge, twisting mid-thrust into a low feint, followed by three rapid-angle slashes that defied traditional timing. It was not meant to be watched. It was meant to kill—efficiently, gracefully, and unpredictably.
Ayo exhaled and ended with his blade held point-down in the soil, panting lightly.
Still, Chizoba said nothing.
He remained in stillness, feigning sleep, yet his mind was busy. Cataloguing. Re-evaluating. The man may have been unknown, uncelebrated, loud and gluttonous—but his swordplay was not ordinary. And that made him something else entirely.
Ayo stretched, took a sip from a flask, and sat back down near the fire. He said nothing, didn't wake Omo, didn't whistle or mutter to himself. Just leaned against a tree, sword still in hand, and let the silence return.
Chizoba allowed himself a slow breath and closed his eyes properly now—but not fully to rest. He would still wake at the first sign of trouble. But for now... maybe this Ayo wasn't a liar. Maybe.
Just maybe.
Then it happened.