Chapter One – The Last Stand
The night was red.
Not the crimson of sunsets, nor the muted glow of city neon, but the raw, burning red of fire and blood. Lagos burned around them. Smoke choked the sky, blotting out the moon. The air reeked of charred flesh, decay, and something else — that strange metallic tang that had haunted the world since the Mana Surge.
Commander Dele Okafor gripped the hilt of his machete, its blade slick with gore. His combat fatigues were torn, his chest heaving from exhaustion, but his eyes… his eyes were cold. In the last seven years since the apocalypse began, he had watched entire nations fall, cities eaten alive, and millions transformed into mana-born abominations.
And yet, even in this hell, he had clawed his way up. From a lowly soldier to commander of one of the last remaining Nigerian strongholds. They called him The Iron Dog, half in respect, half in fear.
"Push them back!" Dele roared, voice carrying over the chaos. "Hold the line!"
His men obeyed without hesitation. Guns rattled, machetes rose and fell, mana flared in the hands of awakened soldiers. A wall of rotting flesh and distorted limbs slammed into them — the zombies, once human, now ravenous shells of mana gone wrong. Their eyes glowed faint blue, their shrieks splitting the night.
One soldier panicked, his rifle jamming as a beast lunged. Before Dele could shout, the man's throat was torn out. Blood sprayed. The creature turned its hungry gaze toward Dele.
Dele moved like a predator. One step, one swing — the machete cleaved through skull and bone. The body collapsed, twitching. He didn't even flinch.
He had long ago learned not to.
---
They fought for hours. By the time the tide broke, only half his unit remained. The rest were corpses littering the ground, or worse — twitching bodies already mutating into the enemy.
Dele wiped sweat and blood from his face, scanning the battlefield. Lagos was gone. What remained of its skyscrapers were smoking husks. Fires painted the skyline orange, shadows twisting and writhing like spirits of the damned.
He clenched his jaw. This was not survival. This was erosion. Every battle chipped away at humanity, until there would be nothing left but beasts.
A voice crackled in his earpiece. "Commander… the northern wall has collapsed. Survivors are fleeing. We… we can't hold."
Dele closed his eyes. He had known this was coming. The defenses were failing. Supplies dwindling. Morale shattered.
"Pull the civilians back to the inner sector," he ordered. "All remaining troops regroup at HQ. If we fall, we fall together."
A pause. Then: "Yes, Commander."
---
The Meeting
HQ was nothing more than a fortified government building, concrete walls scarred with bullet holes and mana burns. Inside, chaos reigned. Officers argued, maps lay scattered, radio chatter screamed of collapsing fronts.
At the center table, the so-called leaders of what remained of Lagos' military and government huddled like frightened rats.
"You can't expect us to fight anymore!" one politician shouted, his fine suit stained with sweat. "We need to negotiate! There must be a way—"
"With who?" Dele's voice cut through the noise. He slammed his machete on the table, blood still dripping from its edge. The room went silent. "Do you plan to negotiate with the dead? Or with the monsters who wear their skin?"
The man shrank back. Dele's gaze swept the others. He saw fear. Weakness. And he hated it.
"This city is lost," another officer said quietly. "We should evacuate. Retreat inland. Lagos is finished."
"No," Dele growled. "If Lagos falls, the rest of the south falls with it. Do you think the beasts will stop here? Do you think the awakened warlords circling us will wait patiently while we run? Retreat, and you hand them the continent."
Murmurs spread. Some agreed, others shook their heads. Dele felt the anger rising in his chest. This was why Africa had fallen faster than the rest of the world — division, corruption, cowardice. Even in the end, they squabbled.
He slammed his fist down. "We need unity. We need strength. If Africa stands together, we can—"
"Unity?" The word dripped with mockery.
Dele turned. One of the senior officers, a colonel he had long distrusted, was smiling coldly. "You speak of unity as though you have the right to lead it. But you are just a soldier, Dele. An ambitious dog. And dogs should know their place."
Dele's hand tightened on his machete. "Careful, Colonel."
But before he could react, the colonel's hand flashed. Mana flared — bright, crackling lightning. The betrayal was sudden, brutal.
Agony tore through Dele's chest as the bolt struck. His body convulsed, the stench of burnt flesh filling the air.
---
Betrayal
The room exploded into chaos. Some screamed, others drew weapons, but it was too late. The colonel's loyalists moved instantly, blades and bullets cutting down Dele's men.
Dele dropped to one knee, blood pouring from his mouth. His vision blurred, but he saw it all — his soldiers dying, his comrades butchered, the colonel sneering.
"You were too dangerous," the traitor spat. "Too ambitious. The others may have feared you, but I will not kneel to your dream of 'unity.' Better you die here, and let me lead what remains."
Dele tried to rise, rage fueling him, but his body betrayed him. The lightning had burned through his lungs, his heart faltering. He was dying.
Around him, the last of his loyalists were cut down. The HQ burned. Lagos screamed outside its walls.
So this was how it ended? Not at the hands of the monsters, but at the hands of men too small to see beyond themselves.
---
Death
Dele collapsed against the wall, blood soaking his uniform. His vision dimmed, the colonel's gloating face a blur.
I failed.
The thought burned more than the pain. He had fought, bled, sacrificed everything — and still, Africa had fallen. Not to zombies. Not to mana. But to weakness. Division. Betrayal.
He coughed, choking on blood. His dream of a united Africa… gone.
His last breath escaped as a whisper, not of despair, but of fury.
"This continent… will never kneel… until someone makes it…"
Then darkness took him.
---
Rebirth
For a moment, there was nothing. No pain, no sound, no light. Just an endless void.
Then — a heartbeat.
His.
Dele's eyes snapped open. He gasped, clutching his chest. No wound. No blood. No burning lightning tearing him apart. He was… whole.
He sat up violently, looking around.
This was not HQ. This was not the battlefield. He was lying in a small, worn-out bed. The walls around him were cracked but familiar. His childhood room.
Panic gripped him. He stumbled to the mirror.
A young face stared back. Not the scarred commander of the apocalypse, but the man he had been years ago. His skin was smooth, his eyes sharp, his body unscarred.
He staggered back. "No… this is impossible."
He remembered his death. The colonel's betrayal. The burning city. His last breath.
And yet… the calendar on the wall read five years before the Mana Surge.
His chest rose and fell rapidly. Fear, disbelief, confusion — and then… realization.
This was no dream. This was a second chance.
Slowly, the panic ebbed, replaced by something else. A dark, simmering fire.
His lips curved into a cold smile.
He whispered to the empty room:
"This time… I will not wait. This time, I will not beg, or plead, or compromise. When the apocalypse comes… Africa will not fall."
His reflection stared back, eyes burning with purpose.
"This time, the continent will kneel. To me."