The realm beyond time was silent, save for the crackling of celestial flames and the humming of distant stars. Endless clouds of golden mist stretched into eternity, glowing with the whispers of forgotten deities.
In the middle of this divine expanse stood a young figure, draped in robes woven from shadow and starlight. His eyes, glowing faintly silver, carried the weight of countless centuries. His name was Peterson Olumide—though here, he was not merely Peterson. He was a god. Or rather… he once had been.
Around him, other gods gathered in a great circle, their divine forms shimmering like pillars of fire, water, stone, and air. They looked upon him with curiosity, suspicion, and no small amount of mockery.
A goddess with hair of flowing rivers leaned forward, her voice sharp.
"Tell us, Forgotten One… why would you abandon eternity? Why choose weakness, when you were born destruction itself?"
A booming laugh followed. A giant god of storms cracked lightning across his chest and sneered.
"A god reborn as mortal flesh? Hah! Madness! You shame us all, Peterson."
Their words rolled through the chamber of stars, but Peterson did not flinch. His gaze was calm, his voice steady, carrying a strange warmth that seemed out of place among deities.
"Because to rule life, one must first live it."
The circle erupted with angered murmurs. Some gods scoffed, others turned their faces away. Only one remained silent: an elder god seated upon a throne of obsidian flame. His eyes glowed crimson, older than the Earth itself. When he finally spoke, the stars seemed to pause in reverence.
"He is not abandoning power. His soul was cursed from birth. The boy is the harbinger of balance… or destruction."
The elder god's words echoed, cutting through the noise.
Peterson lowered his head slightly. He had known this truth long before it was spoken. His power—his true power—was too great, too chaotic, to remain unsealed. To walk among mortals, he had agreed to suppress it, binding himself in chains of reincarnation.
The water goddess sneered.
"Then fall, Forgotten God. Fall into the world of dust and suffering you seem to adore."
One by one, the gods turned away, their voices fading into the distance. And then, the heavens split.
A golden chain coiled around Peterson's body, glowing like the dawn. The divine robe crumbled into ash. His silver eyes dulled to ordinary brown. He closed them gently, as if surrendering to sleep.
Before the light swallowed him, he whispered to himself:
"Let me see what it means… to be human
Rebirth
The sky over Nigeria roared that night. Thunder shook the earth as a child was born in Port Harcourt, his first cry echoing like an ancient hymn.
The Olivia family, proud and powerful, welcomed their second son. The firstborn, Tom—blessed with immense strength from birth—had already begun showing signs of unnatural ability. But the second child, Peterson, was different. His only gift appeared to be the faintest trace of telekinesis.
The Olivia elders whispered behind closed doors:
"A disappointment."
"A weakling."
"Unworthy of the family name."
Only his grandfather's eyes softened when he looked at him. For the old man knew what no one else did—that the child's weakness was not weakness at all, but a seal holding back a storm.
Eighteen Years Later
The sun blazed hot above Olivia High School, a prestigious academy where uniforms were always crisp and reputations mattered more than grades. Students bustled through the courtyard, some speaking English, others Yoruba, Hausa, or Igbo, the sounds of Nigeria blending into a vibrant chorus.
At the edge of the crowd sat Peterson Olivia. His tie was crooked, his shoes scuffed, his gaze distant.
He lifted his hand toward a plastic water bottle on the table before him. The cap trembled. The bottle wobbled slightly… then fell over with a weak plop.
The students nearby burst into laughter.
"Ah, Peterson again with his useless tricks," one boy chuckled.
A girl smirked. "So this is Olivia's second son? What a disgrace."
Peterson didn't respond. He picked up the bottle, set it upright again, and stared at the ground. His chest felt heavy, but his face remained calm.
From across the courtyard, a familiar voice boomed.
"Weakling!"
Peterson froze. Slowly, he turned his head.
There he was.
Tom Olivia—known by many as Dark Toxin.
Tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating an aura that seemed to crush the air around him, Tom was everything Peterson was not. Students cheered when he walked by, some even stepping aside as if royalty had entered the courtyard. His uniform was spotless, his eyes sharp and proud.
Dark Toxin grinned at his younger brother, cruel amusement flickering across his face.
"Still playing with bottles? You're a shame to our name."
The crowd laughed again. Peterson's lips tightened, but he said nothing.
Tom stepped closer, his shadow falling over him.
"Look at me when I'm talking to you."
Peterson raised his eyes slowly. Brown met burning red. For just a second, something inside Peterson stirred—like a faint spark in the dark. But it faded as quickly as it came.
Tom chuckled and turned away, throwing one last mocking glance.
"Pathetic."
The Dream
That night, Peterson lay in his small bedroom, staring at the ceiling fan spinning lazily above him. His body ached—not from Tom's insults, but from the weight of never being enough.
Sleep came reluctantly. But when it did, it was not ordinary.
He found himself standing once again in a realm of gold and mist. The voices of gods echoed faintly, though their faces were blurred.
From the darkness, a whisper came.
"The seal is not eternal."
Peterson froze.
The voice grew louder.
"Toxic X will awaken."
A rush of images flooded his mind—flames consuming the sky, rivers splitting in two, gods bowing before a shadowed figure with silver eyes.
And then, silence.
Peterson gasped awake, drenched in sweat. His hands shook as he clutched his blanket. His heart raced, though he didn't know why.
Somewhere deep inside him, something ancient had stirred.