"Long, long time ago in the Ancient Igbo Dynasty..." the Old Graceful Woman continued, her voice a river of memory and myth, flowing through the eager hearts of the children gathered before her. As she spoke, their imaginations blossomed, transforming her words into scenes alive with color and emotion.
And in the vivid mind's eye of her listeners, the story began...
A charming farm girl of sixteen, her form slender and strong, bent gracefully over the soil. Her skin gleamed like polished mahogany under the early morning sun. Eyes full of silent dreams peered out from beneath thick lashes as she worked with practiced ease—her right hand wielding a small, curved knife to till the earth, her left gently tucking corn seeds into the moist, eager ground.
Not far from her, her thirty-three-year-old mother moved with rhythmic efficiency, hacking away at weeds with her weather-worn sickle. The lines etched into her face whispered tales of hardship and triumph, of harvests hard-earned and seasons survived. Together, they worked in quiet harmony, the unspoken bond of blood and toil connecting them like an ancient thread.
Above them, the sky stretched wide and peaceful, blushing softly as dawn spread its light across the land. All seemed well.
But high above—hidden from their gaze—a second celestial body breached the quiet blue. It cut through the sky like a glowing spear hurled from the heavens, its surface ablaze. Though small from afar, its speed and fire cloaked it in silent menace. No bird shrieked at its passing. No shadow warned of its arrival. The world held its breath.
And then, an apocalyptic sound tore through the earth with a thunderstorming KA-BLOOM-RACK-SSH-KQURACKK!
The ground convulsed violently. The air rippled. A deafening shockwave split through the land like the roar of a waking god.
Birds erupted from the trees in panicked swarms. Animals bolted. Trees bowed and cracked. The soil beneath the women's feet buckled like the skin of a beast rising from slumber. Both mother and daughter screamed and dropped to the ground, clutching each other in a trembling knot.
Though the impact had struck miles away—in the depths of the wilderness—their bones rattled with its force. At the center of that devastation, the wilderness shattered. The earth opened like a cracked shell, vomiting flame, debris, and broken terrain. What had been forest seconds before now burned, twisted, and fell in upon itself. A vast crater gaped like a scar torn open by something far beyond mortal understanding.
From that point of collision, boulders erupted—some large as huts—flung across the land like pebbles cast by angry gods. They flew in wild, flaming arcs, landing with terrifying force across the region.
One such boulder hurtled directly toward the two farmers.
The daughter saw it first—a massive shape darkening the sky. "Mother!" she cried, shoving her mother out of the way. They both hit the dirt as the stone crashed behind them, the impact sending a wave of dust into the air.
Then another—larger, fiercer—barreled straight toward the girl. Her heart seized. She couldn't move. Time collapsed.
Just as it was about to crush her, she suddenly heard a loud ZAP-P!
A bolt of pure lightning split the sky, striking the boulder. It shattered mid-air, turning to ash and sparks, disintegrating before it could end her life.
She gasped. Her limbs trembled. Her mouth opened, but no words came—only tears of relief. She was alive.
The dust slowly settled. The trembling earth began to grow still. The sky, though bruised with smoke, began to breathe again.
And through that smoky haze... a figure emerged. He stumbled forward, like a ghost born of flame and ash.
A boy—perhaps seventeen, perhaps eighteen—clad in a shredded white tunic stained with soot. His hair was thick and matted with debris. A diamond-studded headband clung to his brow, glinting weakly in the sun. His skin, a fair shade of chocolate-hue and untouched by the flames around him, seemed to shimmer beneath the filth. His physique was lithe and athletic, his face sculpted like it belonged to another realm.
She stared, awestruck, not knowing why her heart fluttered at the sight of him.
Who is he? Where did he come from? she gasped in thought.
He staggered toward her, thoroughly exhausted—his eyes flickering, once, then closed.
He collapsed into her arms.
The girl caught him with a surprised cry, holding him upright. His weight sagged against her, breath ragged, chest rising and falling in weak, uneven spurts. Her mother dropped beside them, fingers moving expertly to check for signs of life.
"He may yet live," she said, relief flickering in her eyes.
The girl leaned close, whispering, "Where did you come from?"
He stirred. His brows furrowed slightly, as though trying to understand her words. But then, something stranger happened. Though he said nothing, his head still resting limply, he seemed to hear her—not with his ears, but with his mind. Her question, echoing in her thoughts, found its way to his understanding.
His lips did not move, but his hand slowly lifted and pointed—a trembling, weary gesture—toward the smoldering crater far in the distance. Then his hand fell.
Mother and daughter looked at each other in stunned silence.
His chest bore an insignia—a white ram's head encircled by a ring, the ring split by a jagged thunderbolt. It was emblazoned upon what was left of his scorched tunic. The symbol pulsed faintly with otherworldly light.
Their eyes widened.
In the distance, the destruction still roared. Trees lay splintered like broken spears. Fire raged across the valley. Smoke blackened the sky. The land itself looked wounded. And yet, from this maelstrom, this boy had emerged—alive.
"That's impossible," the mother breathed. "No one could survive such… such..."
But words failed her.
Just then, the sound of hurried voices cut through the air. The girl looked up. From the hill that bordered the farmland, a group of brave villagers had arrived—men and women drawn by the tremors, carrying machetes, gourds of water, and simple charms. Their faces were masks of alarm and determination.
"What happened here?" one of the elders shouted, his eyes darting from the shattered terrain to the girl cradling the strange youth.
Another woman fell to her knees beside the mother. "We saw the fire from Ama-Achi. Are you two safe?"
"We are," the mother answered, her voice shaken. "But he... he came from the... sky."
The villagers gathered around, gazes shifting from the devastated horizon to the semi-unconscious boy. Some whispered native prayers, others muttered oaths to the gods. One old man took a step back, fear tightening his features.
"He bears the Mark of the Thunder Ram," someone said under their breath.
"He's not from here..." another said.
"No mortal can survive that blast," another chirped in.
Then, the boy stirred again. "I... d-did..." he murmured, quickly adapting to, and understanding, their language—responding not to the sound of their voices, but to their thoughts. His voice was weak, but real. His body trembled with exhaustion.
The villagers gasped. How did he survived such catastrophe?
Then—his strength faded entirely. And he passed into oblivion...