Chapter Six – Blood in the Dust
"A man is not truly tested in the brightness of day, but in the night when knives whisper and shadows gather. It is in blood, not words, that dominion is born."
---
The silence unnerved his circle more than Bala's shouting ever had.
Kunle fidgeted with the cheap chain on his neck, glancing over his shoulder every five steps as they crossed the dim campus yard. Musa's lips moved in quiet prayer, his eyes downcast, though even he stole uneasy looks into the darkness pooling between the dormitory blocks. Chika hid her nerves behind sarcasm, spitting out half-jokes about ghost stories, while Tunde paced a little too far ahead, as though trying to prove he wasn't rattled.
But Dele?
Dele simply walked, his hands clasped loosely behind him, eyes forward, his expression a mask of cold calm. Inside, though, he felt the rhythm of the world shift. Noise had fled. And when noise fled, violence always followed.
"Bala dey quiet since three days now," Kunle muttered, his voice low. "Guy no fit keep him mouth shut this long unless e dey plan wahala."
"That's why we stay sharp," Dele said flatly. His tone carried no warmth, only instruction.
The others fell silent.
He knew the pattern too well. In his past life — in that apocalyptic wasteland where mana roared and the world drowned in monsters — silence was never peace. It was the lull before teeth sank into your throat.
And now, in this fragile pre-apocalypse world, the same truth held. Bala's silence was not surrender. It was coiled malice.
---
The night found him walking alone.
Kunle had begged to follow, but Dele dismissed him. "A shadow is lighter without baggage," he said, and Kunle fell back, reluctantly obeying.
The campus was hushed, the moon dragging pale light across cracked pavement and unkempt grass. A few bulbs flickered along the back paths, but the darkness between them was thick, hungry.
Dele's shoes crunched gravel. Every sense sharpened. His blood thrummed with that familiar edge — the same taut awareness he'd felt before ambushes in the ruined future.
The trap closed without warning.
Figures surged from the dark like jagged teeth — eight of them, iron rods and machetes glinting. Bala's laughter slithered out after them, cruel and ugly.
"See am! Big man strategist! Alone like rat." Bala's heavy frame lumbered forward, machete in hand, grin wide enough to split his face. "You think you smart pass me, Dele? Tonight we go show who get campus."
Dele's heartbeat slowed. His pupils narrowed, breath deepening, body instinctively slipping into combat rhythm.
They rushed him.
The first swing of a rod whistled past his head. He pivoted, elbow cracking against the thug's jaw, seized the man's wrist, and wrenched the weapon free. In one motion, he smashed it against another's temple. Bone split. Blood sprayed.
The yard exploded into violence.
Machetes flashed, iron rods thudded against stone, grunts and curses ripped the night apart. Dele flowed between them, precise, ruthless, his mind calculating angles as if every heartbeat were a chess move. He took hits — a slice across his arm, a rib-bruising blow — but pain only sharpened him.
Still, numbers pressed hard. Four against one, then five. The circle tightened.
Bala's laughter cut again. "Finish am! Break am bones!"
An iron rod slammed into Dele's shoulder. He staggered, knees buckling —
And that was when she arrived.
---
Amara Okafor stepped out of the dark like she had always belonged to it.
Tall, lithe, wrapped in a simple black hoodie, her presence carried weight before she even moved. Her eyes — cold, sharp, merciless — assessed the scene in a glance.
Then she struck.
Her first motion was a blur — a machete-arm lopped open from wrist to elbow before the wielder even registered her presence. He screamed, weapon clattering to the ground. She spun, drove her knee into another man's gut, seized his head, and smashed it against the wall with sickening force.
It was not saving. It was culling.
The thugs turned, startled. Dele, bloodied but unbowed, straightened. His gaze locked on her even as he swung the rod into another's kneecap.
For the first time in this life, he saw someone else move with the same cold efficiency he carried inside. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just pure, lethal calculation.
Bala stumbled back. "Who—who be this?!"
Amara's eyes flicked to him, unbothered. "Dead weight." Her voice was low, crisp, deadly.
Two more of Bala's men lunged at her. She dismantled them in seconds — one throat crushed under her heel, another's arm broken and face shoved into the dirt.
Now only Bala remained, machete trembling in his grasp.
Dele advanced. He was bleeding, but his steps were measured, regal, inevitable.
Bala's bravado cracked. Sweat glistened on his forehead. He swung wildly — Dele sidestepped, seized his wrist, twisted until the machete dropped, then drove a fist into his jaw. Bala crumpled, groaning.
Dele loomed over him, rod raised — then paused. His eyes narrowed.
Killing Bala now would waste him. A loud fool was sometimes more useful alive than dead.
So he dropped the rod with a clang beside Bala's head. "Crawl," he said. "Go. Spread the story. Spread the fear."
Bala scrambled away, whimpering, vanishing into the shadows.
The yard was silent again. Silent, but heavy with blood.
---
Dele turned.
Amara stood still, breathing steady, as though she hadn't just carved through men like butcher's meat. Her gaze locked on him. Testing. Measuring.
He studied her back. Tall, coiled grace. No wasted words, no softness. Ruthless efficiency.
Their silence stretched, thick with something unspoken.
Finally, Dele inclined his head, the faintest ghost of a smile flickering across his bloodied lips. "You fight like a ghost that remembers being flesh."
Her brow arched. "And you fight like a man who's died once already."
The words hit him like a blade pressed against his throat. He didn't show it — but his pulse surged. Did she know? Or was it instinct?
"Name," he demanded.
"Amara Okafor." Her tone carried no deference. It was a statement, equal to his own existence.
He let the name settle. Then: "We will meet again."
Without waiting for reply, she stepped back into the shadows, vanishing as easily as she had come.
---
Dele stood among the groaning bodies, blood dripping from his arm, and breathed deep. His circle would hear of this night. The campus would whisper. Bala would crawl.
But the true shift was deeper.
A new piece had entered the board. And unlike the others, this one could not be bent. Only matched.
Dele's lips curled into something that was not quite a smile.
The game had changed.
—