Chapter Two: The Weight of Rebirth
The ceiling fan groaned as it spun lazily, pushing warm, humid air across the cramped bedroom. The faint glow of a kerosene lantern in the corner painted everything in sepia shadows—the peeling paint, the thin curtains swaying in the Lagos night breeze, the stack of old newspapers in the corner. For a moment, Dele simply lay there, eyes open, staring at the fan as if it were the sky itself.
Alive.
His chest rose and fell. His hands, trembling, clutched the bedsheet. He blinked rapidly, expecting smoke, screams, the stench of blood and charred flesh. Instead, he heard the muffled sound of a neighbor's transistor radio playing highlife music. Somewhere outside, a hawker's sing-song call drifted through the humid night: "Pure water! Pure water, ten naira!"
Dele pressed his palms against his face, fingers digging into his skin. The air was thick with sweat, yet his body shook as though caught in a storm. He dragged his hands down slowly, and when they dropped, he looked around the room again.
It was his childhood room.
The old wooden desk where he used to scribble strategies and wild dreams. The crack on the wall he had traced with his finger a thousand times. Even the cheap calendar hanging on the nail—2015.
Five years before the Surge.
A hollow laugh tore from his throat, breaking into a hoarse rasp.
This… this is impossible.
His last memory still burned vivid in his mind: the fortress collapsing around him, his soldiers screaming, the roar of mana-fueled abominations ripping through steel. The betrayal, the blade in his side. The taste of his own blood as everything went dark. He remembered dying—he was sure of it.
And yet here he was. Alive. Young again. Five years before the world ended.
He sat up on the bed slowly, his bare feet touching the cool cement floor. His reflection stared back at him faintly from the cracked mirror propped on the desk. Younger, leaner, without the scars that had mapped his body in his first life. His face looked soft—untouched by years of battle and bloodshed.
His lips curved into a humorless smile.
So, the gods—or fate, or whatever cruel hand rules existence—have thrown me back into the game. Very well. I will not waste this chance.
A sudden creak at the door pulled him from his thoughts. His mother's voice floated in, gentle, weary.
"Dele, you're still awake?"
He froze. The voice stabbed through him like a blade. Slowly, he turned. And there she was—his mother. Alive. Not the emaciated corpse he'd buried in the wastelands. Not the lifeless body gnawed on by the infected. She stood in her faded wrapper, holding a small kerosene lamp, her eyes tired but kind.
Dele's throat clenched. His chest burned.
"Ma…" His voice broke before he could stop it.
She smiled faintly, not noticing the storm in his expression. "Try and sleep, eh? Tomorrow you'll help me in the shop. Don't stay up too late."
He wanted to throw himself at her feet, to weep and cling to her, but he held himself still. His hands trembled against his thighs, nails digging into flesh until pain anchored him.
She left, closing the door softly behind her.
The silence that followed was unbearable. Dele pressed his palms against his eyes, his jaw tight.
You died, Ma. I buried you with my own hands. And now… now I have to watch you live again, knowing what is coming. I can't protect you as a son. Not this time. I must protect you as a ruler.
His breathing steadied. The softness drained from his face, replaced by the mask he had worn as commander. He stood, crossed to the desk, and sat heavily. He pulled out the drawer. The notebooks were still there—old, half-filled with doodles and childish dreams. He opened one, took up a pen, and began to write.
Not dreams this time. A war plan.
Five years until the Surge. Five years until the skies bled mana, until the weak rotted into the undead, until monsters prowled the ruins of cities. He had failed in his first life because he reacted too late, scrambling to build unity in the ashes. This time, he would not wait.
This time, he would build his empire before the fire came.
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By morning, Lagos had shaken itself awake in a chorus of voices, horns, and the chaos of commerce. The streets teemed with danfo buses painted yellow, their conductors leaning dangerously from doors, shouting destinations: "Ojuelegba! Yaba! CMS!" Vendors crowded the roadside with trays of oranges, fried puff-puff, akara, boiled corn. The smell of roasted suya drifted from a stand, mixing with the choking exhaust fumes.
Dele stepped into the noise, his shirt loose, his expression calm, eyes sharp. He walked through the familiar streets, every detail stirring memories of what was to come. The people laughed, bargained, argued over change. They had no idea that in five years their voices would be screams.
He scanned them with cold calculation.
The majority will not survive the Surge. Their blood will paint these streets. But those who endure… those are my future soldiers. My people.
"Chairmo! Omo Dele!" A voice cut through the noise.
Three young men leaned against a kiosk ahead, cigarettes dangling from their lips. Thugs—he remembered them. Local terrors who extorted shopkeepers and preyed on anyone unlucky enough to pass alone. In his first life, he had ignored them; they were too small to matter when the world collapsed. But now… now they were his test.
The leader, tall with a crooked grin, blocked Dele's path. "O boy, you dey waka like person wey no get respect. Where your greeting?"
Dele's gaze lingered on him. He remembered this man's fate clearly—ripped apart by ghouls in the second week of the apocalypse.
"I don't greet trash," Dele said flatly.
The thug blinked, then snarled. His boys shifted, hands already sliding to the knives tucked in their belts. The air thickened with tension, the bustle of the street fading as a few curious onlookers paused at a safe distance.
Dele's lips curled faintly.
Let's see how this body handles blood.
The leader lunged, fist swinging. Dele moved before thought, instinct drilled by years of war flowing into his younger muscles. He sidestepped, caught the man's wrist, and drove his elbow into the thug's throat. A wet gasp. The man collapsed, clutching his neck, wheezing.
The other two rushed forward with blades. Dele's world slowed, his focus narrowing. He seized the wrist of the first, twisting until bone cracked. The knife clattered to the ground. With his free hand, he rammed the man's face into the kiosk with a sickening crunch.
The last hesitated, eyes wide. Dele picked up the dropped knife, twirling it once in his grip.
"You should run," Dele said softly.
The boy fled.
Dele crouched by the leader, who writhed on the dirt, gasping like a fish. He pressed the blade against his cheek, the steel cold against sweat.
"Remember my face," Dele murmured. His tone was low, almost tender, but his eyes were hard. "Tell the others. The world belongs to me now."
He dragged the blade slowly across the thug's cheek—not deep enough to kill, but enough to scar forever. Blood welled. The man screamed.
Dele rose, wiped the knife on the man's shirt, and dropped it. Then he turned and walked away, ignoring the stares of the crowd.
Inside, his pulse raced—not from fear, but exhilaration.
Yes. The body remembers. The mind sharpens. I am not weak. Not anymore.
As he vanished into the maze of Lagos streets, he whispered under his breath, a vow to himself, to fate, to the gods who had thrown him back into the game:
"This time, I will not wait for power to fall into my hands. I will seize it. Piece by piece. City by city. And when the Surge comes, Africa will not break. Africa will kneel to me."
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